


Being Neighbourly

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst what's that, Canon compliant up to HLV, Direct line to happiness, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Friends to Lovers, John is lucky I let him exist in this fic, Molly in 221C, Obviously that's the endgame here, S4 didn't happen, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: Molly needs a new place to live. The best candidate: 221C Baker Street. Being Sherlock's neighbour can't be that hard, can it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Plot for the sake of plot. We all know how it'll end.

What started as a sliding, toppling pile of books and binders has evolved into a strategic balancing act that Molly Hooper is pleased to have mastered. No longer must she carefully place each book to optimise on height to carry them all in one go. These days she can have a stack up to her forehead and have no problem navigating herself and the items in question around her workspace. She can make a single trip to or from her office with any reference material needed for the task at hand, all without using her eyes.

It’s one of the many things on her mind when she enters the lab walking backwards, the collection of journals and textbooks in her arms supported by her laptop underneath and a novel tucked into her armpit. She doesn’t worry herself about the noise she makes setting down and separating her pile, since the only other person in the room is busying himself between a microscope and a notepad. Textbooks and journals to one side, then, laptop to the other... then the novel, which she carries across the room and sets beside the microscope before returning to her place.

“I see you’re finally taking initiative,” he says to her back.

“Did you get that from my shoes?” she replies blandly, opening her laptop without looking up. In her periphery she sees him pick up the book and turn it over. “You seemed interested.”

“What was interesting was that I’ve seen you reading it on four different occasions. You left your laptop open on your desk yesterday when I needed to know the gestation period of an African bush elephant.” Molly can’t help her face scrunching up in a moment of befuddlement before she is able to disconnect the two statements. “I assume you’ve been looking for some time.”

“A while,” she admits. “Nothing good has turned up and I don’t want to move in the middle of winter but I also don’t want to live somewhere that requires me to aim a space heater at the wall.”

A little ball of anger flares up in her chest and a scowl settles on her face. Every winter it gets worse and worse, her pipes freezing to the point where she fears they’ll burst and flood her flat, and every winter she gets more and more impatient at her cheap landlord not doing anything about it. Sherlock’s referring to her search for a new place as _taking initiative_ is the most accurate way anyone could have put it.

When she looks up properly she sees his eyes are once again lit by the light of the microscope. The conversation apparently over, Molly opens a document on her laptop and sets to work on her own specimens, typing out her results as she assumes Sherlock is writing his.

It took them nearly a year to get back to this place. At first she had his lab and mortuary access revoked, which she expected to result in him begging her to let him in but which ended with him simply nodding and walking away without a word. It was sad that she could tell he believed he deserved to be turned away. She wished she could feel good about having that power, but when the days turned into weeks and then months she found herself worrying about him again.

Months later she was told he’d been cut off from every external source, only allowed to take cases given or approved by his brother. The same day she learned this, she sought him out and offered to allow him access once again, but with conditions; it was much the same ultimatum that Scotland Yard gave him if he wanted to return to their service. It felt like starting from scratch, rebuilding their acquaintanceship and then their business relationship until they had a semblance of friendship again. Better not to think about how hard it must have been for Sherlock. He was the only one at fault for his situation.

Molly allows herself another peek while she considers this, expecting Sherlock to be engrossed in his experiment. She’s surprised when she meets his gaze an instant before his eyes flicker back down to his slides. She watches him for a few more seconds before turning back to her own work.

A half hour later Molly is left alone in the lab to finish her tests, the room giving no indication that there was ever anybody else inside. Once she finishes, she leaves her area as spotless as Sherlock left his and proceeds to start her work properly, heading straight for the mortuary after depositing the books and journals in her office. She flits through the rest of her day like any other, except for the lunch she takes in solitude, inhaling her meal and using the rest of the hour to scan various sites and papers in search of a new place to live.

The thought of space heaters makes her mad enough to put a hole in the newspaper as she scribbles a star next to one decent-looking advert. She drops her pen with a sigh, sitting back in her chair and frowning at all the little red marks on the newsprint.

_You’ve lowered your standards_ , she thinks, rereading the offer of a studio apartment across the river. She nearly picks up the pen to draw a large X over the paragraph when she spots the one below it, detailing a newly renovated and pet-friendly one-bedroom... Oh, basement. Perhaps not. And on Baker Street. Perhaps _definitely_ not. Living too close to Sherlock wouldn’t just be maddening, it would be… better than another winter where she is, honestly.

“Can’t possibly be worse than that,” she says to herself, reading the number from the paper and tapping it into her mobile. She ponders the advert as she brings the phone to her ear and waits. The second ring barely starts to chime when it is interrupted by the voice across the line.

“Hello?”

Molly’s mouth is half open when she registers the owner of the voice. She pulls her phone away from her face to check the number and sees that it has been replaced by the name set to the number already in her contacts list. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, hello, Molly dear! How are you?”

“I’m... good? Sorry,” she says, trying to squash her confusion while she frowns down at the paper in front of her. “Maybe I put in the wrong number. This isn’t your advert in the paper, is it, for the flat?”

“The flat? I asked them to print it next week!” Mrs. Hudson tuts on the other end of the line, and Molly imagines her shaking her head. “I’ll have to put in a word.”

“It’s for 221C, then?”

“Oh, yes! It’s all being redone, new walls and insulation and pipes; they’ve even lowered the floor! I didn’t even know that was possible until the contractor said...” Molly listens patiently to Mrs. Hudson’s description of the work going into 221C, at some point having pulled a notepad toward her and started listing the details of the remodelling. “I’d hoped to put the advert out next week when we’ll have the washer and dryer hooked up. They’re really quite nice. I’d have liked them for myself!”

The pen stills in Molly’s hand and she blinks down at the paper. She currently does her laundry in coin-operated machines on the bottom floor of her building and didn’t even consider a place where she’d have her own set. With an entirely remodelled place _with new pipes_ , the idea of Baker Street has gone from terrible to rather tempting, even if it is a basement flat.

“Would I be able to take a look?”

“Of course! I’ll have to see when they’ll be all cleaned up, first. Ring me when you’re finished work and we can make it a date!”

When the call ends, Molly places her mobile beside her notepad and rolls the pen between her fingers in thought. Lips pursed, she looks over her notes, wondering what the catch could possibly be. She knows the big one, of course, the one she’d have to figure out for herself, and writes it down on the bottom of the paper: _You’d be Sherlock’s neighbour_.


	2. Chapter 2

In the three minutes it takes for her to reach 221 from the Tube station, Molly’s coat is absolutely drenched. No point in saying the rain came unexpectedly, either; the clouds were already dark when she left her building, but she still didn’t bother to bring an umbrella. She could only hope there wouldn’t be any problem with her removing her squishy shoes before going downstairs.

She’d had to wait until the weekend to come by. A few days ago she considered it a good thing, so she could look into a few more places first, but when one after the other just didn’t cut it, her hopes for something nice, affordable, and close to work were dwindling. Yesterday’s flat would have been perfect, a cosy bright space, but she turned around and walked out at the ludicrous amount that was asked for rent.

Nice, affordable, and close to work shouldn’t have been that hard to find.

The door opens before Molly can extend her hand to ring the bell, with Mrs. Hudson hurrying her out of the downpour and quickly shutting the door against the wind.

“Oh, look at you!” she frets while Molly shakes off her coat before hanging it over two hooks on the empty rack. “Leave your shoes too. I’m sure I can get you some dry socks....”

“They’re all right,” Molly says, wiggling her toes.

“Well, maybe I’ll keep you for a cuppa so these can dry a bit longer.”

“That sounds lovely.”

The door to the basement flat is different from the one she remembers. Much more like the main door to the building, the new one is black and shiny with a silver decal in the centre declaring it the entry to 221C. Mrs. Hudson chides herself with a smile when she tries to pull the door open, reminding herself that it’s the other way round now, then pushes it inward on silent hinges.

“Do watch yourself on the stairs,” she says, stepping onto the little landing inside the door. She leads the way down with a hand on the fresh white wall, avoiding the occasional hole where some wiring pops through and is subsequently taped down to the wall. “They’re a bit steeper than normal and we haven’t put the bannister up yet. Makes it easier to bring things up and down, unless your balance is as bad as mine!”

It takes a moment for Molly to realise the stairs are not only steeper but the area itself is comfortably wide. She wonders which of the walls was moved outward, or if it might have been both. She does like the lighting being on the sides instead of on the ceiling and wonders what the sconces will look like.

A second, light oak door greets them at the bottom of the stairs, already unlocked. Molly steps into the room behind Mrs. Hudson as the landlady ventures off to the side to turn on the lights. The room is lit up with a click and an involuntary gasp of delight escapes Molly’s lips.

The window on the far wall is large enough to light the whole room on a sunny day, but right now the light is coming from a large round fixture in the centre of the room. The fireplace on the wall adjacent is set almost completely in the wall with an off-white mantel and enough space above it to hang a fair-sized TV. The laminate wood floors are almost the colour of honey and there’s more than enough room for what furniture she has, and maybe even the desk she keeps in her spare room. The wallpaper is what steals most of her attention: pale golden brown interspersed with silvery feathers all the way around the room. It’s a strange combination that is basically the refurbished equivalent of the designs upstairs.

“That’s still the biggest window in here, unfortunately,” Mrs. Hudson says, leading her across the room to the open doorway of the kitchen.  

“I like to sleep in the dark,” Molly assures her. She steps into the room and finds its middle before turning in a circle to examine the space. It’s almost an exact square, unexciting in its beigeness, but all granite countertops and two large sinks and a peninsula with still enough room for a table and chairs. The sheer amount of counter space and cabinets is exciting, even though Molly rarely bakes and barely cooks. _Maybe I’ll have to start_ , she thinks to herself.

“Did you tell Sherlock I was coming to look at the flat?” she asks.

“Haven’t had the chance, he’s been out and about all week. You’d think he would want to know what’s going on, since he’s the one who paid to have it all redone.”

“ _He_ did? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A treat for me, maybe, or maybe he’s lonely and wants a neighbour. I have to keep my fridge full, he comes down so often. Wouldn’t it be nice if a friend ended up moving in, though!”

Molly purses her lips as Mrs. Hudson leads her out of the kitchen toward what Molly assumes is the bathroom, the next door being a little off to the side but still near the middle of the flat. Her guess is confirmed when Mrs. Hudson opens the door and ushers her inside. There’s more than enough room for both women to walk around freely in the bathroom, and Molly appreciates the space.

The laundry area is pushed back from the rest of the room, the washer and dryer seated in their own little nook with the linen cupboard in the wall beside, across from the sink and toilet. At the far end of the room is the tub, a little wider than her own, with a small shelf and a pair of hooks set in the wall beneath the shower. The room itself is simple tiled floor and painted walls, but when she looks hard she notices that both are tinted a very light green.

“The problem I’m having right now is the pipes,” Molly says. “You said the water system was redone too?”

“That was half the problem down here before: the pipes and the damp. He wouldn’t even let me look at the cost of the insulation. But you won’t have to worry about freezing or flooding. _Or_ running out of water,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “Right, one more!”

The bedroom is the only carpeted room in the flat. The grey floor is only slightly darker than the walls, though instead of a golden feather, this wallpaper has a design of pure white interconnecting branches, like thin birch trees weaving in and out of each other. It would work with any colour brought in, even her navy blue bedding. The doors to the closet against the nearer wall are open, and she can see it’s large enough that she could unpack her stuffed drawers and put all those poor items on hangers where they should be.

God, she’s already imagining putting the flat together!

“It’s beautiful,” she says, grinning madly.

“You’re the first person to see it!” Mrs. Hudson coos. “Do you want to go back and look at anything again, or would you like to go up for that cuppa?”

Molly allows Mrs. Hudson to lead her back upstairs after one last appreciative sweep of the main room. The flat is far more than she expected from a basement and even closer to work than where she is now, _and_ she would be renting from a friend.... It all feels too convenient. Even the specific questions she’s asking are getting the good answers.

“If it were anybody else I’d say I still have to introduce you to the neighbour,” Mrs. Hudson says over her cup. “You know what he’s like.”

“I’d still like to talk it over with him,” Molly tells her. It isn’t just that she doesn’t want to impose; she wants to know if she would be welcome or just tolerated. Independence is important to her but she finds she doesn’t mind the idea of living close to Sherlock as much as she did before seeing the flat. The relationship they have is already symbiotic, even close to mutually beneficial. He shouldn’t be any harder to handle than when he kips at hers anyway. “What would the rent be like?”

“Well—” The sound of the front door slamming doesn’t seem to startle Mrs. Hudson in the least, merely putting a frown on her face at being interrupted. She rises from her seat at the same time her door opens, and Sherlock barely pauses to give her a peck on the temple before ducking into her fridge, leaving her to turn back to Molly with an apologetic smile. “Exactly what I said, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen him eat before,” Molly says with a laugh, causing Sherlock to bang his head in his attempt to remove himself from the fridge. Brow raised, she gives him and the sleeve of cinnamon rolls in his hand a little wave.

“Molly.” He looks between her and his snacks and awkwardly places them back in the fridge, choosing instead to pick a handful of biscuits off the plate on the table. “Don’t you usually visit on Mondays?”

“She came to look at the flat,” Mrs. Hudson explains.

Sherlock simply blinks repeatedly, looking back and forth between his landlady and his friend, stopping on Molly after eating one of his biscuits whole. “And you liked it.”

“I did. I wanted to discuss it with you, though. In case you don’t want me here.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you here? Actually—” He inhales another biscuit before placing the rest back on the plate and nodding to Mrs. Hudson. “Give us one moment.”

Molly downs the rest of her tea and promises to return in a minute before she follows Sherlock into the foyer. When she catches up to him, he is leaning against the wall next to the stairs, watching his foot tap against the floor. He looks almost uncomfortable when she comes to stand in front of him.

“When we talked about me looking for a new place,” she says, “you didn’t mention that 221C was being redone. You looked like you wanted to say something.”

“If I’d mentioned it you would have considered it, and if you considered it you would have... But I suppose it’s all irrelevant since you’re here anyway.”

“You don’t want me to take the flat, then.”

“I didn’t want to manipulate the situation. I... suppose I could acclimate myself to your being here.”

Molly does her best to examine Sherlock’s expression with him looking at anything but her. She can tell she made him uncomfortable with her directness, but it’s always been the easiest way to get a straight answer from him.

“I’ll go ask about the rent, then,” she says, feeling a smile fall on her own face at the slight upturn of his lips. She holds a hand out to him. “Neighbour.”

His eyes finally turn to Molly’s as he gives her hand a light squeeze. Anybody else would have seen a strange, almost businesslike handshake.

“Neighbour.”


	3. Chapter 3

Turning in her notice turns out to be one of the most deeply satisfying things she has ever experienced. The only thing that would have made it better would have been sincere pettiness. She considered writing her intent in a greeting card just so her landlord could feel the same amount of disillusionment he dealt with his promises to fix the problems she and others had been having with their flats. Her nature would never have encouraged her to such lengths, so what she chose to deliver was the usual: a simple typed page with the date of and reason for her leaving. With no thanks.

She decides to move in small bursts so everything can be out of the way when it’s time for the furniture to go. In the weeks that follow she stops by Baker Street each day with a box or two at a time, starting with knick-knacks and photos before progressing to the more infrequently used cookware and linens. The books are some of the last things to go, taking a week’s worth of trips on their own before the shelves are finally ready to come down. As moving day comes closer and closer, Molly’s flat becomes emptier and emptier and her excitement mounts.

So of course when the day finally does come, she finds herself called into work.

She supposes she should be glad the request came after the movers showed up to start the haul, and while she is grateful that her soon-to-be-former neighbour Mitchell was happy to oversee the packing while also keeping an eye on Toby, the idea of returning to a messy, unpacked flat late at night is far from what Molly considers a good time.

The apprehension follows her the entire afternoon, and when she signs out a little after ten, she is flat out dreading having to spend her one remaining day off setting everything up. That was supposed to be _today’s_ job, and then _tomorrow_ she would fetch Toby and spend the day acquainting him with their new surroundings. _But no_ , she complains. _Of course you get to rush it instead._

By the time she leaves Baker Street Station her mood has soured and she wants nothing more than to drop onto her sofa and sleep. The calls she made earlier in the evening were short but at least she knows everything will be there when she arrives, even if it will be a clutter. The last thing she needed today was to hear that something had been lost in the move.

A warm orange glow greets her from above when she opens the front door at 221. Her soft footfalls break the silence and the new lighting in her staircase seeps into the darkness of the foyer. She barely registers the newly-mounted handrail as she slips noiselessly down the steps. Unlocking her door, she reaches for the switch inside before flicking off the outer lights. Gently shutting the door behind her, she flips the bolt back into place and drops her bag, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the wall rack beside the door.

_Wait._

Her brain takes a moment to catch up to her eyes as she blinks at the hooks attached to the wall. That definitely only came today and the movers weren’t supposed to _install_ anything....

Turning around, her exhaustion begins to dissipate as she properly takes in the main room. TV mounted above the fireplace. Sofa, chairs, and end tables, desk and shelves all where she intended to place them. Even her laptop is out on the desk, the little green light glowing next to the charging port.

She approaches the bookcases feeling certain that she’ll have to fix their ordering, but no, even those are perfectly organised. If this were a cartoon, she’d be looking at a giant neon arrow pointed straight up. Even the book she lent him is back in its place.

Grinning widely, Molly shuts the light in the main room and heads straight for the bedroom, ready to weep in happiness when she sees her bed made up and her favourite flannel pyjamas folded neatly by her pillow. The boxes of clothes are otherwise all untouched, though her drawers are in place and ready to be filled. The clock on her night table is set and the numbers shine a red haze on her phone charger, set neatly on the edge of the table.

“Thank you,” she whispers to the ceiling. “Thank you, thank you!”

* * *

 

Even without Toby’s comforting purr near her ear, Molly drops off as soon as she is nestled in her cocoon of blankets and doesn’t wake up until the sun is shining into her room through the small window above her bed. The thought of all the hard work being finished has her trotting through her new home with a spring in her step, taking in the morning glow lighting the main room as she passes through carrying her dressing gown. The layout of the flat is another thing she’ll be able to appreciate, having the natural alarm clock of the south-facing window in her bedroom and the glare-free north-facing window in the living room. Yes, this is going to turn out fabulously.

Her linens are already in the cupboard and a hand towel is up beside the sink, but all of her personal things are still in their box atop the washer. _Smart man._ She digs out the countertop necessities, placing the bottle of hand soap and the cup that matches on their respective sides of the sink, before starting her morning ritual. Once the little things are done, she returns to the box to find her bath things and takes a towel from the cupboard and sets them all in place. She turns the tap in the tub, waiting with her hand beneath the faucet for the water to heat up. She didn’t mind the sink giving her lukewarm water, but a steaming hot shower to start her day has always been a must.

A frown slowly settles on her face as she waits and waits and the water remains at a steady cool temperature. With a resigned sigh, she turns the tap back and flicks the water off her hand. Of course a smooth day was never going to happen. Still, it’s a small job to get the tank going. If only she knew where to find it.

Ten minutes later, her phone is pressed to her hear as she sits on her sofa gazing listlessly at the empty fireplace.

“Molly.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you. Mrs. Hudson didn’t answer.”

“Mrs. Hudson is next door gossiping with Mrs. Turner over breakfast,” Sherlock says drily. “Do you need something?”

“Actually, I have no hot water. I was going to ask where to find the tank so I could turn it on.”

“You can come up here. I’ll phone in.”

The line beeps to signal the end of the call, leaving Molly with her mouth half open and her ears feeling a little warm. Slowly, she gets to her feet and goes to the bathroom to gather her things.

First he puts her flat together, then he offers her the use of his shower. What’s next, _I made more food than necessary so you don’t have to cook_?

“Take it while you can,” Molly tells herself. Eventually he’ll get bored of being helpful and leave her to solve her own problems.

Why is she not looking forward to that, exactly?

He’s sitting at his desk already on the phone when she reaches his door, and he nods in the direction of the bathroom as a greeting. Molly shuffles through the kitchen and down the hall, checking and rechecking her load to make sure she didn’t forget anything downstairs.

She doesn’t feel self-conscious about walking out in her big old dressing gown when she’s finished cleaning up. Sherlock has seen her padding around her flat in shorts and a cami and never looked twice, so the sight of her with her hair up in a towel and the fluffy white thing wrapped around her from neck to calf is hardly the most shocking sight he’s beheld.

In fact, he doesn’t even look up from his computer when she enters the kitchen on her way to the main room to say thanks. He does, however, point to the kitchen table, where a steaming mug of milky coffee awaits.

“Thank you!” she says, placing her bottles on the table and picking up the mug with both hands. Unconcerned about the open doors, she enters the main room and sits down across from Sherlock, watching him read while she takes a tentative sip of the lovely golden roast.

In another timeline she’d have been out of there instantly, but in this one, she allows herself to appreciate the view. He’s only halfway ready for the day, hair still fluffy from sleep and striped blue dressing gown on over his crisp white shirt instead of a suit jacket. The white light from the screen makes his eyes look eerily crystalline, and she takes special time to enjoy the colour as they move back and forth across the page.

“Thank you for letting me clean up here,” she says after a minute.

“Least I could do. They’ll be coming round in an hour so I would suggest fetching your cat later in the day.”

“Thanks,” she says again. “And thank you for what you did in my flat. It was a very warm welcome.”

His lips twitch in a fleeting smile that he disguises by taking a drink of his own coffee. “You’d have done the same, I’m sure.”

“I really wouldn’t have.” He looks up at her then, the affronted crinkle of his brow pulling a titter from her. “Do you really think I could replace everything on _those_ —” She points past him to the old and worryingly warped bookshelves against the wall, “—by memory?”

A small, crooked smile settles on his face as he returns to reading his screen. “Fair enough.”

“I do appreciate it, really.”

“I took the liberty of putting your kitchen away as well. Everything is in an optimal place for your height and handedness. Obviously you can move things if they’re not where you’d like them....”

“I’m sure you did that perfectly too.”

He does his best to keep a straight face, but Molly can see a little bit of pink reach Sherlock’s cheeks at the compliment and wonders if she could get away with paying him back exclusively in nice words.

Little fractions of conversation come and go while she drinks her coffee and Sherlock skims through his news sources and correspondence. She’s always liked seeing his reactions when he goes through his inbox, scoffing at the inane and humming at the interesting. When her cup is empty, she returns to the kitchen to put it in the sink, thanking him one more time and wishing him a good morning before picking up her things and heading out the door.

She thinks she hears the words “See you later,” but she’s already started down the stairs when he says it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: food, transport, and a cat.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey, remember when you were a lying liar? Still applies._

“Oh, shut up,” he mutters, uncaring of which internal monologue he means to silence. Everyone in there is throwing a fit, and for what? Offering the use of his bathroom _one time_ after having access to every room in her old flat over the course of _years_? It was logic. Repayment. No ulterior motive. What agenda could he even _have_?

And he _was_ truthful, thank you. Not elaborating on a truth is hardly equal to lying. He said he could get used to her living downstairs, and he can. He didn’t have to say he was glad to have someone familiar interested in the flat, and he _certainly_ didn’t have to tell her he was _looking forward_ to the space being hers.

Though to be fair, he also didn’t have to put in the effort of unpacking three-quarters of her flat in one afternoon, either.

Sherlock stops pacing his sitting room – when did he start? – and turns to glare at himself in the mirror, stepping forward until he is barely a foot away from his reflection. Usually he is able to distance himself when he sees his own face, but at this moment, he finds himself uncomfortable with the assessing frown he has turned on himself.

 _What do_ you _fear from her?_ the mental version of Mycroft asks in a bored drone.   _Afraid you’ll prove yourself a disappointment again?_

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock growls, throwing himself into his chair and away from the image of his own scrutiny. He can admit to himself that he is apprehensive of being constantly on Molly’s radar. His rebuilt relationship with Molly is precarious enough as it is; any misstep could throw him back into her bad books and then he’ll be hopeless both at Barts _and_ at home.

There’s no way this can end well for him if he mucks _anything_ up.

Heaving a sigh, he hops to his feet once again. No use pacing, though; instead, he walks into his room to replace his dressing gown with a suit jacket and then enters the bathroom to brush his teeth. His mind doesn’t linger on the smell of strawberries just as his eyes didn’t linger on the two coffee cups in the kitchen sink.

He has no reason to feel anxious.

* * *

 

It’s nearly a week before he sees Molly again. Each time he enters the foyer he expects her to just _be_ there, but he has come and gone without a hint of her presence save the quiet sound of voices coming from Mrs. Hudson’s flat on Monday afternoon. Of course it wasn’t his _goal_ to avoid her, but it is not something he wants to complain about. The niggling feeling that she might be keeping tabs on his actions hasn’t seemed to dull. Would it be a negative to make a point of staying out of her way...?

No matter, since that idea gets binned on Friday morning. The sound of the door opening and closing behind him barely registers as he asks the cabbie for Barts through the window, but on hearing his name, he turns instinctively to come face to face with his new neighbour.

“Morning,” she says, smiling widely as she adjusts the bag on her shoulder. “Going my way?”

Without really thinking, Sherlock opens the rear door and steps back wordlessly. He very nearly folds when Molly gives him a surprised look but he remains unmoving, waiting for her to climb into the taxi before following her in and pulling the door shut.

The next minute manages to land on his list of the most uncomfortable moments of his life. Instead of simply watching the streets go by outside the window, he finds himself looking back and forth between the meter and his traveling companion looking out _her_ window in silence, and trying to calculate the odds of her opening conversation.

“I’ve acclimated to spending travel time in silence,” he informs her when his eyes land on the meter again. “If you were waiting.”

“We don’t have to have a conversation. I usually listen to music on the Tube.”

“You’re not now.”

“No.” Her head turns slightly and she gives him a small smile. “You were waiting.”

Sherlock flounders then, his mouth stuck half open in a reply that won’t come out. Of course she noticed his discomfort, and if he hadn’t been so occupied by wondering if he should talk, he would have seen the open invitation of the ear buds still folded in her hands.

Honestly, he should just stop overthinking her. She’s hardly dangerous.

 _She can make your murder look like an accident,_ he thinks, puzzled at his own conclusion.

“Though speaking of the Tube,” Molly continues, “you’d save a lot of money taking the train instead of a cab.”

“I prefer to see the city passing,” he says. “It’s worth paying for that, and the convenience of never being stuffed in a filthy carriage with strangers.”

“They’re called _cars_ , not _carriages_ , remember?”

Sherlock lets out a proper laugh at that, seeing Molly grin at the memory as well. Despite his mixed feelings about the day in reference, that time spent with Molly after his return from the dead was special. It didn’t matter how insignificant most of the cases were; finally having the chance to enjoy her company made the tedium worthwhile. But then it ended and he was left alone once again. She returned to her fiancé and their dog and he went home with fish and chips for one. He is glad she remembers at least the first part fondly and he expects she had a far better evening than he did. But he doesn’t want to think about that, so he turns to watch the people flit by outside the window.

A thought worms its way into his head in the comfortable, quiet moments that follow. It takes some effort to pry his eyes away from the passing city to turn back to Molly. The lines on her face look more relaxed as she looks out her window, lost in some thought he doesn’t want to decipher lest it turn out to be about that day. He decides to wait until they arrive at their destination, hoping to avoid unintentionally creating a painfully awkward trap in the back of the cab.

He refuses her offers to split the fare when the cabbie parks outside the main doors to the hospital, arguing that he was coming here anyway, handing over the notes and thanking the driver before she can dig her wallet out of her knapsack. She follows him out of the car with a frown.

“I’ll get the next one,” she promises.

“I’m sure. Are you available tomorrow?” he asks, eager to get to the desired subject before they enter the building and go their separate ways.

“Yes.”

“Right. Good.”

“Do you need me for something?”

“Not as such. I was... wondering. If you were available tomorrow, which you are.” Oh, lovely, he’s failing to form a sentence. How the tables have turned. “Would you... Would you like to—”

“Solve crimes?”

“—have dinner?”

“Oh!”

Sherlock is fairly certain his eyes go wide as saucers when he sees the visibly pink tinge reach Molly’s cheeks and he realises precisely what just happened. He has no idea what kind of smile she’s biting back as she keeps walking without looking up, but it’s beyond nerve-wracking to guess. All he meant to do was offer a social setting as a friend and neighbour. In hindsight, he could have made that clear, but when was communication ever his forte? _And why isn’t she saying anything_?

“It-it doesn’t have to be dinner,” he says quickly, opening the door for her to pass through first. “I... enjoyed your company Sunday morning and I would like to continue enjoying your company in that setting.”

“Breakfast would probably be better, then,” Molly says thoughtfully. She finally turns to him when they stop in front of the reception desk, and he feels a flood of relief to see no hint of judgement on her face. “I’ll pick up some things on my way home tonight. Come down for nine, okay?”

She turns and trots off in the direction of her office before he can say anything more, and he remains in place, allowing his heart to slow to a more normal speed before making his way to the lab to check his cultures.

 _Yes, it would definitely be for the best to stop fretting_ , he decides. _You’ll be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worried that hopping to Sherlock's POV this early would muddle things up, so I made Sherlock worry instead. I think it worked for both of us.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t know why you’re so up in arms about this. Cats are carnivores.”

“His diet is _not_ the point! I had to train him out of climbing and now you’re teaching him the table is allowed!”

“I’m not teaching him anything. He comes on the chair, not the table.”

“The table is next! And I don’t need him getting fat off the food _I cook for you_!”

“You just said his diet is irrelevant and now you’re scolding me for feeding him bacon?”

“You’re a chemist. You should know that much salt isn’t good for him!”

“The missus is right, you know,” the cabbie puts in, looking at them in the rear view mirror.

“We’re not married!” they reply, one in a shout and one in a bored drawl.

“Fooled me,” the cabbie mutters. The man shakes his head as Sherlock slams the divide shut and turns back to Molly to receive more scolding.

“If you don’t stop feeding him—”

“He requests it.”

“He’s mooching because he knows you’ll give it to him! Do your methods not apply to animals too? They’re just as opportunistic as people.”

“You keep telling him he’s a _good boy_ but there are no treats to show for it.”

“Oh, now you’re questioning my parenting?”

“He’s a _cat_ , Molly.”

“He’s _my_ cat, Sherlock, and I’m telling you, if you don’t stop feeding him, I’ll... I’ll bar you from my flat!”

She feels bad as soon as she says it, seeing the very real hurt on his face at the threat. If he didn’t expect her to put her foot down, he’s sure to play by her rules facing the possibility of being kicked out of his best safe space. Her flat has become an extension of his own home, though she does her best to remain independent. She would never actually turn him away anyway so they both know her threat is counterfeit, though apparently still hurtful.

“Promise you’ll stop feeding Toby your table scraps,” she warns.

“Fine,” he mumbles, yanking his coat tighter around him as he crosses his arms and turns his back on her with a pout. “Less dignity in this than getting slapped.”

“Would you like it if I slapped you?”

Sherlock looks at her with a raised brow and it takes a second for her to realise how wrong her tone came out. He smirks and turns back to the window when she falters, her cheeks absolutely burning at the challenging look he just gave her. Six weeks in 221C Baker Street may have made her more comfortable around him than she ever was before, but she hardly needs the accidental flirtations that seem to be a side effect of where their friendship has ended up. _People might talk_ , as a certain someone would say.

“Can I feed him in the living room?”

“Yes.”

Less than two months for them to become the Old Married Couple. Thank God she’s grown past fancying him, or things could get extremely awkward indeed.

* * *

 

Somewhere at the back of his mind he knows his phone just went off, but at the moment his attention is seized completely by his goddaughter, currently holding onto his fingers in a vicelike grip as she tries to keep herself balanced on his knees. Rosamund giggles and bounces on Sherlock’s legs and he watches her face carefully, observing her expression morphing from infantile glee to concentration and back. She tentatively releases her hold on his hands, swaying precariously with wide eyes for a moment before reaching out to him again. Once she decides she has her balance back, she squeezes his fingers and returns to bouncing with an open-mouthed grin. Sherlock responds to the wiggling girl’s smile with one of his own, counting two more little white teeth coming in on top.

He enjoys cataloguing all aspects of her development, his favourite after her ever-improving cognitive capabilities being the ever-changing features on her circular face. He’s never had the chance to witness a small human’s growth and Rosamund is a happy participant in his study.

The second notification beeps at him after a minute, and with a sigh, Sherlock encourages Rosamund to sit and reaches for his phone.

_Get the door in 5?_

Sherlock purses his lips and looks down at his goddaughter, now sitting calmly on his lap. She makes a small noise when he lifts her up and settles her against his hip as he makes his way down the stairs.

He opens the front door just as Molly comes waddling up with a heap of plastic bags in each hand and steps back in time for her to rush in. She gasps a _thank you_ before he pushes the door shut, shuffling forward until she makes it to the middle of the foyer, where she lets all the bags loose from her wrists with a groan.

“I didn’t think I’d end up getting so much,” she says, stretching her back and shoulders with a few quiet pops before turning around with a grin. “I didn’t know you had Rosie today!”

“Mary is on a similar adventure,” Sherlock says, examining the haul in Molly’s near-dozen bags. “Do you need help?”

“Opening the doors would be lovely, thank you.”

Ten minutes after she’s finished putting her groceries away Molly is still in the kitchen, watching. Sherlock can see her in the doorway viewing the scene in her living room through her phone, probably trying to get a blackmail picture to send to Mary.

She’ll probably say something about him looking like some kind of _dad_ sitting on her sofa with Rosie in his lap, guiding one of her little hands over Toby’s fur, murmuring to be gentle with the beast. Toby is content to let the tiny human touch him, sitting still and purring loudly while Rosamund pats his head with care. Her free hand holds a pickling cucumber to her mouth to nibble on; the treat being one of her godmother’s many purchases of the day. Molly only puts her phone away when he is halfway through telling Rosamund about domestic cats, taking the spot on Toby’s other side.

“Glad you could join us. Could you kindly teach the class about the rarity of male calicos?” he asks, scratching behind Toby’s ears when Rosamund turns her full attention to the cucumber. “I assume it’s something to do with the X chromosome.”

“The X is responsible for both black and orange colourings,” Molly confirms, stroking Toby’s grey-striped back. “Since females have two X chromosomes, they can have the orange mutation and the black mutation. Males have one X and one Y, so they only end up with calico colouring if they have an extra X chromosome. Tabby stripes are one colour, even though they appear to be two, so Toby isn’t a calico.”

“Simply a regular grey and white tabby,” Sherlock concludes, speaking directly to Rosamund, who just smiles around her cucumber. “Remember that for later. There’ll be a quiz.”

“Anything on today?”

“Mycroft had some files sent to me for a case that his own people should be assessing. Didn’t bother asking why he wanted me for it, but it’s better than holiday suicides.”

“I believe you,” Molly says quietly. She knows more of why Christmas is a hateful time for him than most others, since the grimness of the holiday is unavoidable in her line of work as well. People tend to assume his low mood throughout December is due to a lack of “real” cases, since he so often compares a great one to a Christmas present, but the two concepts are, in reality, entirely separate.

He felt differently before his own suicide, however fake it was, but since his time as one of the dead he’s gone from enjoying applying himself to such cases to resenting the entire business. He supposes it’s a very human thing to grow to hate telling each new grieving family in a single sentence that they’ll never have closure the way they wanted. He is grateful no one expects him to be cheerful when he has to shop and socialise with that knowledge sticking in the background.

So yes, for once, Mycroft’s work is infinitely more appealing.

“I should get back to it,” he muses, shifting Rosamund on his lap and noting her drooping eyes. “This one needs a nap.” He extracts the cucumber from her loosened grip and places it in Molly’s open hand. “Thank you for the biology lesson.”

“Thank you for the help,” she says, leading him and his sleepy cargo to the door. He leans down slightly to let her kiss their goddaughter’s cheek, as is her custom when they part company.

He takes each step patiently to avoid jostling Rosamund and once upstairs he puts her down to sleep, sending Mary a text requesting she come up quietly when she arrives to pick up her daughter. Then, he silences his phone and sits down at the desk, pulling the small pile of folders toward him to get to work.

He does have to move the novel he left in the middle of the desk, taking care not to damage the old paperback. If Molly has noticed the empty space on her shelf where her favourite book should be, she hasn’t mentioned it, and he hopes she won’t say anything when he replaces the beaten copy with a new one.


	6. Chapter 6

For once Molly made a point of booking holidays, marking every day from 25 December to 2 January with a smiley face on her desk calendar and making Christmas Eve a half day. The sun is still up behind snow-heavy clouds when she exits the Tube at Baker Street and begins her trek home in earnest, skirting around the patches of ice on the sidewalk that formed after the week’s rainfall.

Her neighbour watches from the door should the combination of poor walking conditions and poor balance claim her, a gesture she appreciates when she is barely six feet away and her foot catches a dark patch, sending her lurching forward. Her surprised shriek is abruptly cut off when she hits Sherlock with a muffled thump, feeling his arm come up behind her back to stop her pushing them both over on the ice.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, cheeks burning as she quickly corrects herself. “Thanks.”

“Glad I didn’t have to sacrifice one of you,” he deadpans, readjusting the box she didn’t notice he carried under his arm before turning to unlock the door. The peacock blue wrapping paper piques her interest and she measures the box with her eyes, wondering what could possibly be inside. Her little slow cooker came in a box about the same size, but... “Stop guessing,” he chides, pushing the door open and ushering her inside. “It’s not in spirit.”

This is usually when she expects Sherlock to be at his least miserable, having made it through the worst part of the month, but the comment still catches her off guard. The only Christmas spirit Sherlock likes is the kind that has ascended from a dead body.

“Staying in tonight?” she asks as he leads the way downstairs and marches to the corner of her living room to place the box under her tree.

“Hopefully not.”

“Oh.” It wouldn’t take a genius to identify the disheartening feeling in her chest as jealousy. As often as she says she doesn’t mind being alone, getting ditched by the last person she had a chance to wind down with for the evening does not feel good. She wouldn’t have minded an uneventful Christmas Eve as long as she got to spend some time with the one friend she actually hoped would be available. With Mrs. Hudson away on some sunny holiday, apparently she’s in for a night alone with Toby and Netflix.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he says, turning to her with raised brows. “I only meant I would prefer to dine out. Unless you’d rather order in.”

“Your choice,” she says quickly, picking up on his meaning as her disappointment dissipates. “If you want to go out, we can do that. I don’t mind.”

* * *

 

Light, too bright. Humming, too loud. Ringing. At the same time? Is it ringing? Maybe it’s just – yes, it is just his head. Trying to open his eyes confirms that, the too-bright light hitting his eyes so sharply that all he can do is snap them shut with a groan that makes his head hurt even more.

Softness. Lumps. Moving lumps. What in God’s name could – breathing. Softly up, softly down. Definitely breathing. So the lumps are a body. The softness, blankets. How much slower could he get? Something small beside his head, also breathing. Pet curled up beside him. Cat.

He forces his eyes open once more, squinting against the light and the pain, lifting his head slightly to view his surroundings.

It takes a few long seconds of staring at the wallpaper for him to identify it. He’s too shitfaced to care when he made it into Molly’s room, or why he is lying diagonally on her bed with three of his four limbs claiming an edge to hang off of. He is vaguely aware that his feet are not cold, though his right hand is a little sore from dangling and his left arm is curled behind his back a little uncomfortably. It takes most of his effort to rotate it back to a normal state, the muscles sore and tight from lack of movement.

The other person – Molly – is under all the blankets, in the middle of the bed. He feels his hip pushing against the back of her legs when he moves, dragging himself up and to the side to stop lying on top of her. Toby doesn’t move for anything, but Sherlock doesn’t have to watch where he lands as he flops down again, his feet hanging off the end of the bed and his arms sprawled out above his head.

Using the smell of her dryer sheets as grounding, he tries to remember how he came to be so powerfully smashed. He has never been so hungover and hopes never to be again, but apparently his neighbour is a far worse influence than he gave her credit for.

He vaguely remembers returning to Baker Street already warmed by the wine they had at dinner. Oh, yes, they stayed to finish the bottle. _Bad_ , he thought, or thinks, or maybe said. She asked to do presents after they fell onto the sofa in a half-drunk heap. 750ml, six glasses, three each. _A three-glass problem._

She opened hers first, insistent on taking care with the wrapping paper he got in a colour he knew she would want to save. He’d found a set of wine glasses online shaped like beakers. She laughed when she saw them. He knew she would. He didn’t know they would break them in, and he doesn’t know who suggested it. At some point they finished a bottle she had in her kitchen. It didn’t matter that she had already put a dent in it and that it was lighter than the restaurant’s. He didn’t open his gift. Five glasses.

That was where he stopped recording, apparently. The throbbing in his head suggests they did not stop at two bottles of wine.

At some point she decided to go to bed. At some point he decided not to go upstairs. He might have tried and failed. He’s here now. It’s warm.

He hears the blankets move. She groans and mutters a quiet curse before burying herself once more, adding a pillow to the top of her head. Her attempt to pull the blankets tighter around her fails and she kicks him weakly through the layers.

“’m not moving,” he manages, noting how heavy his tongue feels and how incredibly loud his voice is in his ears.

Molly grunts again, readjusting instead of continuing to struggle. Toby shifts to lie securely against Sherlock’s side and begins to purr. Sherlock remains face down between them. He’s thirsty.  

* * *

 

“Hey, you want to take it easy?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock says, dropping back into his seat with his second heaping plate of food.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night.”

“Molly?”

“He’s not lying,” she confirms, looking to her neighbour and regretting how poorly they both cleaned up today. She knows they look as tired as they feel, but Sherlock seems worse off even after the longest hot shower in history that left her without hot water for her own. He sits up straight and he _looks_ fine, but there are moments when he slips out of the table talk and turns to eating blindly, as if he’s thinking about something else. Maybe still trying to piece together his lost time without being obvious about clocking out. Molly doesn’t particularly care about her missing whatever because she doesn’t tend to overdo it like she did last night. She figures if it’s gone, it’s gone, but Sherlock seems intent to remember. He’s been trying all day, and considering just who she’s looking at, she really doesn’t blame him.

“All right, then,” John says with a knowing smile. “It’s just you didn’t eat anything the last time you were hungover.”

“Oh thank God,” Sherlock sighs, allowing himself to slouch a bit in his chair. “It was getting difficult.”

“What, looking awake?” Mary teases with a grin. She gives Rosie another small spoonful of potatoes before turning to Molly. “Did you instigate it?”

“No,” she says when Sherlock replies, “Yes.”

“I did not! I ordered a glass at dinner. I wasn’t the one who asked for the whole bottle ‘because it’s Christmas.’ I wasn’t the one who suggested I open my gift and then said we should use them—”

“So that was me? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?”

“You did presents already?” Mary interrupts with a frown.

“As long as he didn’t take you out to solve crimes and throw up on someone else’s floor,” John says.

“An event precipitated by multiple acts of sabotage.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at John and then turns the look on Molly. Unfazed, she raises her brows at him in challenge. All she did was calculate their numbers to the maximum instead of the mean. He wanted _practical_ , and there was nothing practical about a mathematically perfect buzz after nearly a dozen stops in two hours. Their ending up in the drunk tank was not her fault.

After assuring John and Mary that her gift was the only one opened early, the talk flows back to comfortable aimlessness. Dinner and dessert flit by and the food Sherlock didn’t eat is packed up in a team effort to get it done quickly and efficiently.

When Mary goes to the living room to organise the gifts and John takes Rosie upstairs to bed, Sherlock pulls Molly aside, keeping her in the kitchen under the guise of making tea.

“I need you to tell me what you can remember from last night,” he says seriously, staring her down from near enough that she can clearly see the circles under his eyes. “I’ve spent all day trying to piece together the events following—”

“Sherlock, I told you, nothing happened.”

“Molly, please tell me. I’m foolish enough when I’m _not_ drunk and I don’t want to have—”

“Nothing happened,” she repeats.

“Stop interrupting me.”

“Stop doubting me. I know you expect me to say you’re a stupid drunk but _nothing happened_. Not to me, not to Toby, not to my furniture or my floor or my possessions. You’re not missing anything.” Unsure of how to convince him he didn’t damage her cat or throw up on her feet, she holds up the little finger of her right hand. “Promise.”

Sherlock furrows his brow at the juvenile truce she’s offering, but after a long minute of his eyes searching her face for any deception, he hooks his own little finger around hers.

“You realise ancient customs dictate you’ll have to remove your finger if I find out you’ve lied.”

“I haven’t lied. We sat on the floor and drank and at one point I think you said something nice.”

“Oh, I must have been very drunk.”

“It’s all right,” Molly assures him, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I might have said something nice too.”


	7. Chapter 7

Ever the respectful neighbour, Molly takes the stairs lightly instead of stomping like she wants to, avoiding making her presence and fury known to all of England. She also doesn’t storm into Sherlock’s flat but steps in quietly, dropping the magazine onto the table before tossing herself onto the sofa to wait. His back is to the room but she can see his face reflected in the window, his eyes glazed over as he drags the bow across the strings of his violin. She can’t quite identify what it is he’s playing, but something at the back of her mind tells her it’s familiar and definitely not classical. Having the distraction of trying to identify what it is he’s playing is better than nothing for fixing her mood so she is happy, in a way, to lie back and listen.

The very last thing she expected to see today was a picture of herself on the cover of some gossip magazine. It was beyond embarrassing to have the thing pushed under her nose by a friend demanding to know how true the story was, and honestly a little frightening to see the photos. Nothing in her mind would have been able to tell her they were being followed when they went out, but the veritable _collection_ of images of her and Sherlock said it had been happening for a couple months at least. She wouldn’t have been as disgusted by the whole of it – the article was fantasy, playing up some romance that never happened using a bunch of pictures of them not even touching as “proof” – if not for the ones taken right outside 221 Baker Street. That was the invasion that made her so angry she was nearly sick.

So she is not _happy_ , not about this. And she knows she’ll be riled right back up when they get into it. For now, though, she’ll just listen to the music, because it’s better than the alternative.

At some point, far too soon but also much later, she realises the music has stopped. She opens one eye to see Sherlock standing on the other side of the coffee table, violin and bow still in hand, looking down at her with a raised brow.

“Sorry,” she says, pushing herself to a sitting position with a huff. “I almost fell asleep.”

“You did fall asleep,” he replies gravely. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for forty-three minutes.”

“You’ve been standing there for forty-three minutes?”

He keeps a level gaze for a few silent seconds before his face splits into a grin and he lets out a snort. “’Course not.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve seen it, then,” he says, turning his back to place his violin on his chair.

“So has everyone at the hospital,” Molly grumbles, glaring at the magazine on the table. “Meena got back from maternity leave _today_ and the first thing she did was shove that in my face.”

“Didn’t take you to follow tabloid culture.”

“I will when it’s about me!” she shrieks, jumping to her feet and picking up the magazine to chuck at him across the room. The flimsy book hits him in the back with only a light smack before falling to the floor in a sad heap, and Sherlock picks it up with a sigh to place it back on the coffee table with the cover down.

“I didn’t take you to be so vain either. The suggestions that our interactions confirm my non-existent relationship with John are very clear as well.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is your peers now think you’re sleeping with your neighbour which is arguably the worst thing that has ever happened to you,” he snaps. “How terrible this attack on your reputation must be!”

Molly shuts her mouth at that, harmed more by unsaid words than by the insult thrown at her. She knows she isn’t in the wrong for being angry at the rumours spread about her in that bloody story, but she also knows he is in the right to deem her vehemence unacceptable. Their situations may be completely different, but at least she is around to set the record straight whether people will believe her or not; he had to sit back and watch his entire life get dragged through the mud by people who delighted in speaking ill of the dead. It may be mortifying, but he’s right. It’s just a smudge, and one she can wipe away or even just ignore until everybody forgets it’s there at all. There are far worse things than pointless people claiming their outings are anything but platonic. She may still love him but she’s not going to let anyone make her think they’re not allowed to have a comforting bond as friends.

She takes a few steadying breaths and nods, her eyes downcast. They follow his feet as he walks around the coffee table to stand in front of her, and her lips turn up when she sees his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t be.” When she finally looks up at him, she can’t fully understand why he looks so incredibly regretful. “I worked hard to get to where I am, Sherlock. My reputation won’t be in tatters because of a stupid fake article about us. My publications will still come up first.”

“Quite right.” The big, warm smile he gives her is almost enough to make her forget what upset her in the first place. Only almost, since he turns to pick up the offending item and holds it between them with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Bit chilly in here, isn’t it?”

* * *

 

The inky smell of the burning pages lingers in the air after she goes downstairs, after he replaces all the files in their folders, after he resurfaces from whatever pool of thought he fell into when he picked up his violin again. He blinks a few times to force his eyes to refocus when his fingers stop moving on the strings and the arm holding the bow falls to his side, and he stands at the window simply waiting for the appearance of the person who belongs to the known tread on the stairs.

“Finished and alphabetised for your convenience,” he says, tilting his head toward the desk where the folders sit in a small pile. “Got any more?”

“Not at the time,” Mycroft replies after an instant. In his periphery, Sherlock watches his brother place the files in a small brown briefcase. He doesn’t move when he snaps it shut and Sherlock is forced to actually turn his head, raising a brow at the British Government’s stern expression.

“What?”

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’ve no pending cases and nothing better to do than to play swan songs to the embers of a tabloid.”

“Is this the part where you offer to make it disappear permanently? Because if it is, I’m sure I can find a better use for my favours. For starters, you can find the person or people who took the photographs and have a word with them.”

“That is already being dealt with. You need to take more care, Sherlock. However sensational it was this time, you know very well there may be people out there who can pick the reality out of the tale with a goal to use her against you for any reason.”

“What exactly are you implying?” Sherlock demands, resenting the way his chest constricts at Mycroft’s warning and doing his best to crush the discomfort.

“What indeed,” Mycroft says darkly.

Sherlock counters his brother’s glare and holds firm when Mycroft finally turns away to walk out without another word. He only allows himself to relax when he counts the seventeenth step, taking a few of his own to walk around his chair to drop into it as the front door closes behind the British Government.

He’s not sure how much time he wastes just sitting there, lightly bouncing the bow against the arm of his chair, staring at the glowing embers in the fireplace. It always makes him sick to think about the people he cares about being used against him; his stomach gives a violent lurch every time he remembers all Moriarty did to get to him, using strangers as bait before moving up to threatening his friends’ lives in exchange for his own. However he plays it, Sherlock constantly regrets the targets he puts on people’s backs.

Molly was safe back then, unknown to those who wanted to hurt him because of the way he distanced himself from her, but that has changed. No matter how the press want to spin their relationship, there is no denying one exists. She is his friend, and whatever may occur because of that, he is absolutely certain he will protect her, because he does care for her, simple as that.

 _No_ , he thinks. _Not that simple._

He has called love a defect of the losing side. He has also called love a vicious motivator. It is not a simple concept in the slightest, as it depends on the kind of love one feels for another and the situation in which it is called into question.

The problem, Sherlock realises, is that past this, he is unprepared for any such situation to occur.

Because when it comes down to it, he has no idea what kind of love he feels for Molly Hooper.


	8. Chapter 8

“I am aware you don’t like to think yourself a misanthrope, Molly, but the fact remains: people, as a whole, are stupid. Not to say the individual is stupid by default, but get enough in one place and there will be less accurate descriptors for the group.”

“It’s still not a nice thing to say just because you’re quicker than most people.”

“Would you rather I rephrased? The media-hungry masses are stupid. They feed on falsity and share it without fact-checking even though Google is six letters long.”

“Anyone else would think you’re pleased it’s blown over.”

“You’re not anyone else. What do you think?”

“I think you’re disappointed there’s no more fun to be had with it.”

A pause. Even over the phone she knows he’s fighting back a smirk. In the time it takes for him to answer, she tosses another quartered potato into the pot in front of her and reaches over to pluck another one from the pile on the counter.

“You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not,” she says, fluffing her ego a bit. “So how did your case go?”

She doesn’t mind pressing him about the case that’s had him away from 221B for the better part of a week, knowing he probably had no one to talk at throughout the investigation. If she hadn’t had to work she wouldn’t have said no to going to France for a few days, even though her French is terrible, but Sherlock didn’t seem bothered not having a sidekick for it anyway. It may only have been Brittany, but the job was interesting enough to get him to another country for a bit and the way he’s waffling now, it’s obvious he enjoyed it.

“You should use the cutting board for that, by the way,” Sherlock says tangentially. “One moment.”

She stopped using the cutting board to be nice, because she’d placed her phone right beside it and didn’t want the noise of metal meeting glass to interrupt the call. Molly sticks her tongue out at her phone as she finishes peeling another potato, rinsing it and setting it in her palm to cut it in half.

The sound of a slamming door makes her jump so hard she pushes the knife right through the potato and down to her hand. The reflex of dropping everything all at once only serves to pull the blade across her palm, making her gasp first in surprise and then in pain.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” she mutters, turning the tap on and placing her bleeding hand underneath it. “Sorry—” she starts, turning to her phone to see the screen flash _Call ended_.

 _One less thing_ , she thinks, taking note of the knife and halved potato lying innocently on the unused cutting board, now decorated with a tiny smear of red. Molly checks the cut on her hand, wincing as she opens her palm fully to watch the line darken as new blood slowly surfaces. Not too deep, then.

“Cutting board,” Sherlock reprimands from the doorway.

“Didn’t realise you were so close,” Molly says through gritted teeth. “Is that why you hung up?”

“I’ve been known to do that.” He casts a sweeping glance over the room before coming up beside her and taking her hand in his, pursing his lips as he examines the thin line across the middle. “Let’s cover this.”

Molly lets Sherlock lead her to the bathroom where he turns on the light and retrieves her first aid kit from under the sink. He sits on the floor in front of her and gestures for her to do the same.

“You’re not stupid,” he says as he pulls her hand forward and sets to cleaning it. She hisses at the sting of the peroxide, but even that fades quickly. “I would appreciate if you didn’t group yourself in with those who are.”

“It was just a reaction. I know I’m not. But a pathologist who handles scalpels and bone saws five days a week shouldn’t cut herself in the kitchen.”

“Your hands are always steady when they need to be, and it was my fault for startling you. Would you like me to chastise you for something this trivial?”

“No.” Molly frowns at her hand while she watches Sherlock work. It’s calming, in a way. She’s sitting knee to knee with him and he is leaning over her hand and she doesn’t feel even a smidge of awkwardness about it. In fact, the only thought that crosses her mind is that she’s never noticed the calluses on his fingers and now she can feel them against the back of her hand. “Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“How long have you played the violin?”

The question puts a smile on his face, though he doesn’t answer immediately. He uses a fresh cotton ball to dry her hand before fishing out the tiny tub of hydrocortisone cream she keeps in the kit to apply a thin layer to the still pink cut. It’s unnecessary, but she appreciates the care.

“I was five or six,” he says as he cuts a length of gauze and starts winding it tightly around her palm. “I don’t remember who first taught me. Learning the music was more important than remembering the teacher, I suppose.”

“Does your brother play?”

“He preferred cake and books.” He sets the gauze in place with a small bit of tape and returns her hand to her like he’s holding out a gift. “You are ready to resume your task.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” She tests her flexibility around the gauze and is not at all surprised that his wrapping is angled perfectly against the creases of her hand. Then she holds it out to him again with a grin. “Kiss it better?”

Sherlock looks between her hand and her face with a furrowed brow, clearly baffled that she would make such a ridiculous request. “Kissing an injury is a fanciful placebo for parents to apply to children who aren’t yet accustomed to minor pain.”

“I know,” Molly says, still smiling as she lets her hand drop into her lap. “Worth a try though, wasn’t it?”

She is about to pull herself up off the floor when Sherlock stops her by reaching for her hand. Cradling it in both of his, he pulls it back toward him, unfolding her fingers and leaning in to press his lips ever so lightly to the gauze on her palm. When he looks up at her, she wonders if he can hear the way her heart is pounding in her ears.

“Better?” All she can do is nod as he places her hand in her lap as it was before. “Good. I should be off.”

Sherlock puts his attention to packing and closing the kit, returning it to its spot before getting to his feet and holding a hand out to help her up. She tries not to linger as she catalogues his calluses again, but he doesn’t exactly make a move to let go once she’s standing too. It’s only a fraction of a second before he clears his throat and removes his hand from hers, but it’s long enough for her to notice his discomfort.

“You didn’t finish your story,” she prompts in an effort to divert his attention. “You can tell me while I finish making supper. _Using_ the cutting board.”

He makes a point of looking at his watch. “Another time. I’m going to meet a client.” When she gives him an incredulous look, he adds, “It’s not a new request. I’ll text you when I get back.”

With those words he turns on his heel and walks out of the room and the flat. Feeling a bit dumbstruck, Molly shuffles back to her kitchen, all the while running her thumb over the gauze on her hand.

* * *

 

Whatever had got into the criminal classes of London, he is anxious for it to pass. It won’t do to start chasing cases in different countries just because people haven’t been coming to him. He has never experienced a lull of such incapacitating measures; nearly three months on MI6 projects alone with next to no real cases from Scotland Yard or from clients. It’s a wonder he didn’t die of old age before someone actually called him.

In the past, a standstill such as this would have pushed him to... other activities. He’s been trudging through it, covering his arms with patches to get an alternate high that wouldn’t serve to create a disappointment of himself. The list he has now is of reasons to stay clean, and it is a very convincing one.

There is also the issue of one of the names on that list. He’s been spending more time around her than he used to, trying to figure out what is going on inside his head in regards to his friend and neighbour. Today was... new data? He certainly didn’t _mind_ having Molly’s hand in his.... He tells himself to cast away the thought for the moment. It should be something he works on at Baker Street.

Sherlock knew his visit with the client wouldn’t take long but it goes quicker than even he expected, and the entire thing falls out of his mind mere minutes after he leaves the place. Even with the long day he had, he chooses to walk back to Baker Street, stopping for Thai on the way and then continuing to wander for a couple hours after the sun goes down.

The perception of his exhaustion only comes when someone bumps his shoulder as they rush past him on the street, causing him to stumble slightly and leaving a slight pain in his left arm. Watching the man jog away ahead of him, Sherlock finally concedes that he needs to go home, and keeping his word, he pulls out his phone to send Molly a text.

By the time he staggers into Baker Street his eyes feel heavy and his head is halfway to pounding. He pushes himself up the stairs and into 221B, hanging his coat and taking off his shoes as a dull feeling of nausea starts to creep in. He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his coat and brings it with him to the kitchen, setting it beside the little lucky bamboo in the middle of the table. The red and gold gift tag is still attached to the small porcelain pot, but he can’t even make out the words on the paper when he sees them. He knows they say _For wealth, happiness and long life. Love from Molly xxx_ in clear black ink.

He moves to the sink and turns on the cold tap, taking a mug from the drying tray and filling it to the brim to down it in seconds. Repeating the action does nothing for the headache or the nausea, and all that comes from closing his eyes and taking a deep breath is a sharp pain in his abdomen that only gets worse with every inhalation. Within seconds he is on the floor clutching his sides as if his seams are about to rip, gasping and confused at the attack happening in his body and in his head. Dragging himself forward, he forces his numb arm to reach for his phone and dial.

The pain turns white hot and he collapses back to the floor, the ringing in his ears turning to silence before the call connects.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes some time to pull herself together enough to raise her head from her hands and open her bleary eyes. She hasn’t been anywhere close to this worn since her dad’s death, but then finding your neighbour half dead on the floor probably wouldn’t do anyone much good. With mumbled thanks, she takes the paper cup being offered to her and wraps her cold hands around it, breathing in the scent of the cheap tea.

“Figured you’d rather that than coffee,” John says, sitting down in the seat next to her with his own cup. His voice is drawn and she doesn’t have to see him to know he looks haggard, the bags under his eyes more pronounced in his worry. “Do you want to talk me through it again?”

Molly shakes her head and says nothing, staring down at her steaming cup. Then she takes a deep breath and nods, figuring if she’ll have to tell it to other people too it will be better for John to be the first to hear it. She does wish it were Mary here with her, though.

“He said he was meeting a client.” The words sound like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth, and she swallows hard to make her voice clearer. “And he said he’d text me when he was on his way home. He said he would finish telling me about the Brittany case when he got back.”

“Did he?”

She nods slowly. “He texted, I mean. I heard him come in, but I didn’t remember if he wanted me to go up or if he was going to come down, so I waited a bit, and I wondered if he’d forgotten but then my phone rang and it was him. But there was nothing on the other end when I answered. I thought maybe it was an accident or some vague way to get my attention or... I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t think anything. But I went up anyway.

“The door was open, the main one, so I went in like usual, except he wasn’t there and he didn’t answer when I asked where he was.... Then I got closer to the kitchen and—”

She stops herself there, gasping so she won’t start crying, and she feels John’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says.

“No.” For a second she wants to squeeze her eyes shut and open them to find out this was just a bad dream, but every time she blinks she sees it again. “He was _twitching_ , John. Just lying there on the floor barely breathing and curled up and twitching!”

Her hands are shaking so hard John has to take her cup to stop her spilling it. As soon as it’s gone she brings her hands up to her face, telling herself not to panic because it won’t do anything to help. She feels the warmth of escaped tears on her hands and forces herself to hold the rest in. She doesn’t want to have to explain how clear it was that Sherlock was in pain; the image of his face still contorted in unconsciousness with the streak of tears on his cheeks and nose was more than terrifying the first time. That moment before she was actually able to act was one of pure fear that he might end up on her slab for real.

“You called 999,” John continues, pulling her back to the present, to the bright ultramodern waiting room in the hospital, where she _knows_ Sherlock is just a few rooms away. “You kept him breathing. He’s alive because you were there. He knew you’d be able to help him.”

Something in his tone makes Molly look up, scrutinising his expression as he holds her cup back out to her. She takes it gingerly and brings it to her lips for a long drink and lets the hot liquid burn her tongue while she waits for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, she turns back to her tea.

The sound of approaching footsteps gets her attention and she is less surprised to see Mycroft walk in than she is to see his three-piece suit all a mess, tie askew and top button open. His stoic façade is nowhere to be seen as even he looks like he’d rather be sleeping.

“Where is it?” Mycroft says in lieu of a greeting.

“Table,” John tells him tiredly, nodding toward the opened manila envelope sat on the table halfway across the room. They’ve both been avoiding it since they went through the results. Now it’s Mycroft’s turn. “Did you find anything at the flat?”

“No.” Mycroft’s expression grows dark as he flips through the pages. When he gets to the last one he drops the small stack of papers back onto the table with a sigh. “But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, well, back of the shoulder at that angle seemed like a bit too much effort for a mixed drink like that.”

Molly holds her tea a little closer to her chest, remembering the horrifying cocktail of drugs and compounds and trying not to think of how they’re all still swimming in Sherlock’s blood.

“I suppose we should be grateful for your promptness,” Mycroft says, and though she knows he’s saying it to her, Molly doesn’t bother to look up.

* * *

 

In the few months she’s lived in 221C, Molly has become more and more certain that Sherlock _listens_ when she comes home from work. Something about the weight of her steps, the order of her actions from the front door to the basement, or whether she calls out a hello apparently tells him exactly what kind of day she had. She can tell when he’s not busy because he’ll text her when she’s had a terrible one, asking if she wants to order takeaway when she’s too tired to cook or requesting she come up to discuss the results of an experiment when her post-mortems leave her feeling lonely. She’s been at Barts long enough that she can avoid rotating shifts and she likes to keep her schedule regular, so it’s no surprise that he can pull it off. Of course, some people would call him overbearing, but she appreciates it. It’s a weird kind of symbiotic she doesn’t mind at all.

The absolute silence from 221B in the days that pass is made almost unbearable by the fact that Sherlock’s unit is just as quiet when she stops by to visit after work during the week. There’s a file waiting when she arrives, updated twice daily, and she reads it, feeling little relief as each page shows the monster concoction’s dwindling effect on his system. She stays for a while, talks to him while he sleeps, takes note of the colour returning to his face, and goes home to tell Mrs. Hudson that no, he didn’t wake up for her.

“You should go,” she tells her landlady over supper on Thursday.

“Me?” Mrs. Hudson scoffs. “He wouldn’t want me fussing over him. He’d wake up just to tell me to go away!”

“At least he’d wake up. The nurses said he wakes up for Mary.”

He’s finally lucid when she visits on Monday, turned toward her and blinking slowly while she tells him about work and Toby and how she’s taking care of his Christmas present. By the time Friday comes around he’s on his feet, shuffling from his bed to the nearer wall and back to drop into his bed to go right back to sleep. It’s little progress but with an immune system that wrecked, it’s not all that shocking.

He may be slowly on the mend, but Molly knows she doesn’t have any other reason not to worry. _Someone_ did this, for a reason. Was Sherlock chosen at random or was he the intended target? He only really survived by chance.  What was the goal, to test the drug or to get him out of the way? There has to be an endgame somewhere, doesn’t there?

She flips through the notebook she used the day they solved crimes together forever ago, trying to put some pieces together, but all she seems to be doing is adding more and more questions to the pile. Maybe making a tree would help organise it. It would be such a Sherlocky thing to do, making a diagram and plastering it to her wall for easy access. She could go properly noir and write it all out on playing cards.

She’s digging through her desk drawers for a marker and some tape when the shrill sound of a doorbell rings through her flat. It doesn’t stop ringing after a second and the thought passes her mind that it could well be a fire alarm by the way it just _will not stop_. Then she remembers Mrs. Hudson’s repeated complaints of Sherlock disconnecting and disassembling his own doorbell, and really, if an incessant ringing like this was his reason for destroying the thing, she can’t blame him.

Her feet barely touch the steps as she flits upstairs to find out what’s going on. There’s no sign of smoke anywhere, and behind the faded chime of the bell downstairs she can hear through Mrs. Hudson’s door that she’s talking on the phone. With a frown, Molly walks to the front of the foyer and through the inner doorway. The doorbell stops as soon as she turns the lock on the main door and she rolls her eyes, taking a second to school her expression into something less annoyed before opening the door.

She doesn’t even have time to look up before he stumbles inside, nearly landing on top of her in his effort. In her momentary surprise Molly can only watch as he drags himself into the foyer, hugging the wall to stay upright before unceremoniously sliding down it to sit on the steps up to 221B.

“Sherlock!” she hisses, slamming the door and running up to him to check his vitals. “What are you doing here?”

“You took your time,” he says hoarsely. His skin is paled from exertion and he’s wearing the same clothes he left in, cleaned but rumpled from being left in a folded pile and then thrown on with haste. The shirt isn’t even tucked in and she doesn’t have to undo the cuffs to push up his sleeves. “I was almost ready to ring Mrs. Hudson instead.”

“You should still be in hospital! How did you get out?”

“Through the front door. Really, Molly, I’m not above checking myself out.”

“They _let_ you leave?”

“I don’t need to be there anymore and someone somewhere does.” With a visibly great deal of effort, Sherlock manages to get back to his feet. “There wasn’t any point in wasting a bed.”

The look on his face when he turns around is one of determination, and Molly wastes no time in quashing it. “You’re not going to get up there; you barely managed the front step. How did you even get home?”

“Taxi driver was kind enough to start a tab for me.” Despite her warnings, Sherlock reaches for the handrail and tries to pull himself up the stairs to his flat. He barely hauls himself up three steps before dropping back down with a huff. She stands there with her hands on her hips, watching him intently. “It was easier going down,” he grumbles.

“Then either you’re waiting in here while I phone someone to take you back to the hospital or you’re coming downstairs and staying there.” A small part at the back of her mind tries to tell her that is a terrible idea, but she remains steadfast. Sherlock may be stubborn, but she’s learned to be worse.

And judging by his defeated slouch, he knows it. Not one to play high and mighty, Molly holds an arm out to him and after a moment he takes it, allowing her to lead him down the steps and to her door. They take the stairs slowly, mostly because she doesn’t want either of them to trip over the other’s feet and tumble into the wall at the bottom. He lets her herd him straight to the sofa once they get into her flat and she leaves him sitting up while she dashes to the kitchen to get him something to drink.

She’s barely gone ten seconds, but when she comes back into the main room she is met with the sight of the genius detective slumped across the settee, his feet still on the floor and his face pressed against the cushion. While she stares, Toby takes the chance to hop up and settle in beside his head. In seconds, the cat’s little snore rumbles along with Sherlock’s.

With a great sigh, Molly turns around and empties the glass of water into the kitchen sink. Then, because this is definitely the worst idea she’s ever had, she fills it with wine.


	10. Chapter 10

In one lifetime she would be appalled at the suggestion that one day she would be digging through Sherlock’s room, but that lifetime is clearly miles away because at this moment Molly Hooper has a goal.

She is completely out of it as she roots around in the wardrobe for anything that could classify as low effort and she feels ready to ascend to another plane when she gives up and turns to the drawers to take out a week’s worth of tees and pyjama bottoms. They go in the reusable shopping bag she brought up, joining the hoodie she found in the linen closet. Her floors aren’t cold but she takes two handfuls of socks, going for the more interesting ones at the back of the drawer instead of the plain black ones at the front. She comes away with a couple different blues and purples, some greys, and one of black and yellow stripes, and she dumps them all unceremoniously on top of the pyjamas.

On closing the drawer, she notices a palm-sized notebook tucked away at the back. Curiosity winning over momentarily, she pulls it out and tips open the cover and is not surprised to discover a detailed index of each pair of socks in the drawer. She replaces the notebook and opens the next drawer, nearly yanking it right out when a laugh from behind her makes her jump halfway out of her skin.

“Here I was thinking there was a burglar up here!” Mrs. Hudson titters as Molly turns around to face her landlady and the very real sword she is wielding. “Heard footsteps over my head and thought, ‘No, he can’t be home yet!’ Are you bringing him some clothes, then?”

“I...” Molly looks at the bag on the bed, thinking she should figure out her own explanation before asking how Mrs. Hudson came to be in possession of a scimitar. Her calm returns quickly and she’s right back to her thoughts of _this is so weird, it might as well happen_. “Sherlock checked out today but he’s not fit enough to be on his own so he’s staying with me.” Even after a large glass of wine it still sounds ridiculous. “He’s asleep right now so I figured I’d come up and get some things.”

“That’s lovely of you! Oh, but what about work? Do you need me to come down and keep an eye on him while you’re gone? I know I say I’m just his landlady but sometimes I wonder if I’m not his mum too!”

“That would be lovely, thanks. What’s his mum like?” Molly asks, feeling oddly unselfconscious as she turns around and counts out enough pants for the week, tossing them in the bag and giving it a shake to even out the contents.

“I think she’d have dragged him back to the hospital by the ear. Do you need any help?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She hefts the straps of the bag over her shoulder and heads toward the bathroom, giving the sword a wide berth.

* * *

 

Every time he wakes up he has to remind himself he hasn’t been hit by a bus. Past grogginess, past soreness, his entire body feels like it’s been crumpled up and he can’t unfold himself. What little energy he regained in the morning was spent leaving the hospital, and he slept the entire cab ride home. He wanted to be away from the dull, sterile environment the hospital forced on him. There was nothing to do but sleep, and he could sleep in his own bed. Except he’s not even at home now, he’s at Molly’s, because he hadn’t the foresight to think he wouldn’t be able to climb the seventeen steps up to his own flat. And he isn’t in a _bed_ , just lying uncomfortably on her sofa.

At least any withdrawal pains are buried in with the rest of the mess. The exhaustion is enough to avoid the body’s desire to seek out a fix to make the aching stop. It’s a little easier to ignore when he’s moving, but the issue there is how limited he is in his mobility. Right now he’s barely more than a brain stuck in a broken case. Not good for working.

He shoos the cat and takes his time sitting up, stretching weakly and groaning at the pops of his tired joints. The flat is silent but the door is open; Molly hasn’t gone far. Using the arm of the sofa to pull himself up, Sherlock makes for the nearest wall and leans against it to get to the bathroom.

The first thought that crosses his mind when he looks in the mirror is that he’s seen worse. His face may be pallid but at least he looks alive, albeit ready for another long sleep by the purple circles under his eyes. He runs a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble there and deciding he can afford not to care about it for the next day or two. Molly will certainly herd him into the bath either tonight or tomorrow, so he elects not to worry about that either. He does rinse some of the taste of sleep from his mouth before trudging back to the sofa.

When he wakes again he almost believes five minutes haven’t passed. The ache is still there when he turns away from the back cushions to face Molly, kneeling beside the sofa, her arm still outstretched from shaking him awake.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice quiet in the darkened room. “You should come to the bedroom. Unless you want me to get you a blanket.”

Sherlock nods his acquiescence before he clarifies, “I’m coming.” The effort he puts in to get up off the sofa leads him to wonder if Molly can hear him creaking. He can’t see enough of her face to be able to tell by any expression, so he simply follows behind her without mentioning that he feels like his bones are made of wood. It’s a struggle to get from A to B and he travels in straight lines, using first the sofa and then the wall and doorframe as checkpoints on the way to her room. She doesn’t appear overly concerned, or maybe she doesn’t notice. He supposes it’s not necessarily a bad thing as he’d rather not be a burden to her for taking him in.

“I took out some pyjamas for you.” Molly gestures to the small heap of clothes at the foot of the bed and immediately walks round to the other side to get in, pulling the covers high enough that he can only see the top of her head. She looks like little more than a small lump of blankets lit by the reading lamp on her end table. “I won’t look.”

He rolls his eyes at the unnecessary diligence and sits down on the edge of the bed to change. Her basket isn’t too far away that he can’t throw his worn clothes into it from his perch, so the only real movement required is to shuffle over enough to pull the blankets down when he climbs into bed, where he makes a point of leaving more than enough space between his body and Molly’s.

“Thank you.”

Her back is still to him, but she smiles at him over her shoulder before reaching to turn off her lamp. They exchange _good night_ s out of propriety, and while Molly dives into her own sleep, Sherlock remains facing her, watching the mound of blankets moving gently up and down in the darkness until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

Over the years of having him kip at hers when he needs space, Molly has always known Sherlock to be a restful sleeper.  Even Toby, who gets grumpy if she so much as rolls over at any point, would stay with Sherlock through the night for the guarantee of never having to move. He doesn’t toss and turn, though in the middle of the night Molly did kick off her pyjama bottoms because it almost felt like sleeping next to a furnace.

She watched him for a little bit before she got up. He’d fallen asleep facing her and she’d woken up facing him and for a minute she forgot how to look away. Seeing him doing ordinary things has always been intriguing, but being able to observe him with his guard completely down turned out to be something else entirely. He looked like a different person in sound sleep, not thinking, not working. She would have waited for him to wake up just to see what he would do first. But she left him in his blanket cocoon and got ready for her day. There was no reason to try to be any quieter than her normal level, and when she checked on him before leaving for work, he hadn’t moved at all.

When she gets home that evening she is greeted by the sight of a clean-shaven and damp-haired Sherlock sitting on the arm of her sofa, facing the tree of cards she taped to the wall during his nap yesterday afternoon. He spares her a glance when she enters, but otherwise his attention is rooted on the playing cards, his eyes flitting from one to the other in his scan of the chart. She leaves him to it as she drops her bags and removes her shoes and coat, and when she approaches, he scoots over to give her space to sit beside him.

“First time up?” she says, noting the bags under his eyes are a little less dark. She turns her attention to the wall before she can make him grumpy by assessing him and instead catalogues the changes he’s made to her original chart. Beneath the Jack of clovers that she marked _Poisoner(s)_ are the eight of hearts and the eight of diamonds, marked _Hired?_ and _Personal?_ respectively, but now, off to the side between _Poisoner_ and _Hired?_ is the Queen of clovers, which Sherlock has marked _BOSS_. He is also turning a card over in his hand, and the way he is examining the tree, Molly assumes he hasn’t decided where he should put it.

“Had tea with Mrs. Hudson around ten,” Sherlock replies languidly. “Went back to bed at half past, woke up about an hour ago.”

“So you haven’t eaten yet?”

“Not hungry.” He continues flipping the card over between his fingers, still staring at the wall. “Good to be working....”

Molly frowns and turns back to the chart. Technically it’s two charts, with the poisoner’s cards on the left and Sherlock’s on the right. Beneath Sherlock’s King of hearts are the four of spades, _Target_ , and the four of diamonds, _Collateral_ , and below and between them is the five of hearts, _Goal_. Beneath that card, the _Target_ side has only two numbered spades for _Past crimes_ and _Future crimes_. On the _Collateral_ side she wrote out two numbered diamonds marked _Testing?_ and _Selling?_ because she couldn’t think of any other reason for anyone to randomly poison another person on the street. Sherlock has put another card in that column reading _TO WHOM?_ with an arrow pointing to the _Future crimes_ card, because of course it wasn’t confusing enough before.

“I got you some meal replacements,” she says, looking back to Sherlock, who turns to her with a furrowed brow. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but you need to get your energy up somehow. If you at least have one a day, a little bit every time you get up—”

“That’s fine.” She didn’t expect him to acquiesce so quickly, and apparently it shows on her face because he rolls his eyes. “I’m not so out of it I don’t know listening to you is the best idea, Molly.”

“Oh. Well... Good. So what’s that one, then?” she asks, pointing to the card in his hand.

Instead of holding up the card for her to see, Sherlock leans over and plucks the roll of tape from the coffee table, pulling off a piece to make a loop with his fingers. He sticks it to the back of the card and adds the card to the list under _Target_.

The King of spades, _MYCROFT_.

“The cases,” she remembers after a second. She takes a step toward the chart and reads it bottom to top, her eyes stopping on _Poisoner(s)_ and remaining positively glued there.

“Internal cases belonging to other people,” Sherlock confirms from behind her. “Other people who might be dirty, who could very easily find information for...”

“Chemists. Experiments. Foxhole stuff.” She turns on the spot to raise a brow at Sherlock. “Why’d you sit on that?”

“Had to consider the possibility he might have had a different role. It’s not above reasoning that whoever planned this may have chosen me as a target to distract or even harm my brother. The card would still be in the same position.”

“Sounds a bit anticlimactic compared to a poison boss.”

“You think so?”

“Well, you like the game. A big scary poison kingpin would be more fun, wouldn’t it?”

“In any other state I would agree.” Sherlock pushes himself off the sofa and lurches toward the chart, anchoring himself beside her with an arm across her shoulders. “As long as it’s not this,” he says, pointing to _Past crimes_.

Molly shifts her weight under Sherlock so he can lean against her more comfortably, pulling herself a little closer and putting an arm around his waist. Somehow, the sudden increase in the frequency and immediacy of their touching hasn’t alarmed her. She used to avoid touching him at all, knowing he preferred to keep his own space unless he reached outside his bubble, but he’s been reaching out more and more recently so it hasn’t occurred to her to feel weird about it. Though he is quite heavy.

She wants to tell him what she got done today. Not only to tell him about her workload, the post-mortems she performed, that Greg asked after him. She wants to ask if he wants to go through his messages, because she got his passwords off John after he told her people have been emailing. She wants to tell him she has a copy of his file in her bag if he wants to go through it. Instead, she stays where she is, acting as his crutch. Because she wants to, not because she needs to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, I've got a pretty busy few weeks coming up so I won't be able to update quickly. Thanks for reading, and for being patient with me.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience this past month-and-a-bit. It's been unbelievably busy and it's going to be a stressful rest of the month, but I'll continue to do my best to get new stuff out to you in decent time. Please enjoy this peace offering.

Molly turns her face to the sun and inhales the spring air, loving how the natural peace of a beautiful day can so quickly replace the hustle and bustle of the Tube. She’s sure Sherlock wouldn’t mind her dragging him up the stairs to sit outside with her on a day like this; considering how much of her food has evaporated recently, he should have the energy for it. It’s been a niggling fear the past couple days that she’ll come home and he’ll be upstairs, back to normal life in 221B. Having him around has been nice. They work well together. They _live_ well together. But there should be no reason for her to want him to stay any longer than he needs to. He’ll be right upstairs anyway.

She’s still a distance from 221 when she notices the figure standing by the steps. It’s hard not to recognise Mycroft Holmes even from down the street, but what she doesn’t realise immediately is that he isn’t waiting for her to arrive. He’s talking to someone sitting down, and as she approaches, her mind supplies nothing but little exclamation marks when she sees he’s talking to Sherlock, sat on the stoop with a paper cup in his hands. He looks the functional opposite of his brother, casually sitting near the ground in his pyjamas and an old hoodie while Mycroft stands poised in a three-piece suit leaning on an umbrella he absolutely does not need. Last time she saw him, Molly decided that there _had_ to be a sword in there as that could be the only logical explanation for him to keep it so close all the time.

Sherlock greets her with a wave of his fingers as she approaches. Mycroft just looks her up and down in appraisal.

“Good afternoon, doctor.” Sherlock raises a brow at his brother, who rolls his eyes in response. “Am I not allowed to give a polite greeting?”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“It is lovely out, though,” Molly says. She nods to Mycroft’s umbrella. “Don’t think you’ll need that for a bit.”

“One never knows,” Mycroft counters, further cementing her certainty that the thing is a weapon.

“Are you locked out? You’re welcome to come in.”

“That won’t be necessary. I was just dropping in to update Sherlock on his case.”

Molly doesn’t miss the scowl that Sherlock hides behind the paper cup. After the few meetings they had while Sherlock was in hospital, she would assume that Mycroft would wait for her to be home if he wanted to talk about the attack. His being here while he obviously knew she wasn’t home can only mean he wanted to discuss something with Sherlock that he didn’t want her to hear.

“What’s the update?” she asks, looking to Sherlock instead of his brother. “Kingpin or anticlimax?”

“Anticlimax.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Where am I going to get any work now?” he says to Mycroft.

“I seem to recall you once had some success with a missing rabbit. Perhaps you should move on to kittens.”

“Cats enough in Baker Street.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says. She doesn’t miss the moment of silent communication that passes between the brothers before Mycroft turns to her, only briefly glancing over her shoulder to the sleek black car that pulls up beside them. “I’ll let Sherlock relay the details. Until next time, doctor.”

“Bye,” Molly manages as Mycroft walks away. She watches him enter the back of the car and waits for it to drive away before turning back to Sherlock, gesturing for him to move over so she can sit on the steps beside him. “So how long have you been working at this?”

“Most of the week,” Sherlock admits. Before she can ask her next question, he adds, “Mycroft bought me coffee.”

“Of course it’s coffee,” she sighs. “So, update?”

“Mycroft has informed me that the responsible party has been apprehended.”

“Singular?”

“Quite. Apparently this _someone_ was unhappy that Mycroft had been passing assignments over his head to an external source. The files I’d been working on,” he explains. “How he inferred that I was the one receiving them is yet to be determined, but I’ve been told the suspect utilised internal connections with a general goal to, quote, ‘get me out of the way.’ I suppose he folded as quickly as he did upon learning of my improving state because he assumed I would identify him. Whatever the case, we were remarkably accurate in our hypothesis.”

“He wanted you dead because you were lightening his workload?”

“Some people are desperate to prove themselves.”

“Sounds familiar,” she teases, earning a short self-deprecating smile from Sherlock. “I’m only a little sorry you didn’t get to play with a big scary poison kingpin. I do worry about you.”

“Sounds familiar,” Sherlock throws back.

“I won’t ask what you talked about first. I don’t want to pry.”

“You should. It was about you. Again.”

“Again?”

“ _My brother_ ,” Sherlock says bitterly, “is under the impression that your proximity will prove detrimental to me somehow. He expressed a similar concern when John joined the picture, but he didn’t see you as a problem until you moved into Baker Street.”

Molly purses her lips and considers his words. She can’t say she hasn’t been a bad influence after they got blasted at Christmas, but apart from that, how could her presence possibly be an issue? They respect each other’s space and privacy. She looks out for him but doesn’t hover. Having him in her flat isn’t even any kind of distracting to her, and he hasn’t seemed to mind. But... it has been domestic. Sharing a bed is an intimate thing even though they keep to their respective sides. She watches him sleep and she’s wondered if he does the same. They have normal, boring conversations in the kitchen and weave around each other in the bathroom, he brushing his teeth while she ties up her hair. Looking down at where their legs are touching, it does seem rather obvious.

He thinks they’re too close and he’s probably right, but tough on him. If Sherlock is at ease with the space he occupies in their friendship, she’s not going to alter the boundaries of his comfort zone to appease Mycroft. And by the distant look of contempt on his face, she assumes Sherlock doesn’t intend to make any changes for his brother’s benefit either.

* * *

 

There is no lack of things to do in Molly’s flat if he finds he can actually stay awake for a bit, but nothing holds his interest very long. The cards on the wall provide no new information however he looks at them, rearranges them, or attempts to add to them. He gets tired if he tries to read a novel but ends up with a headache when he tries to focus on the television. If the cat is nearby, Sherlock will pet him or play with him. Usually he spends his wakeful time on his phone, set to night mode for the orange-tinted screen and absolute silence. A few games of solitaire, Vegas style; a Sudoku set to very hard; scrolling through headlines, forums, emails. He responds to the few he gets these days, all too easy to warrant an invoice. He texts Mary because John asks the same questions but wants different answers, listens to Mrs. Hudson waffle until it’s time for her afternoon soother.

Part of her job watching over him is to make sure he doesn’t push himself while Molly is at work, but when she isn’t around, he does anyway. The longer he is awake during the day, the more energy he expends.

By Tuesday he was raiding the fridge and cupboards in between attempts at the stairs.

It started with him getting up with Molly in the morning, letting her badger him into acting like sitting at the table drinking a meal replacement through a straw was any kind of breakfast. The smell of her coffee was enough to make him feel a little more awake even though she wouldn’t allow him a cup of his own, and the fabricated ice cream flavour of the meal replacements she bought him was sweet enough to be properly enjoyable anyway. He watched her over his straw while she ate and drank, observing the way her face twitched at this news story or that status update when she scrolled through her social media. When she left for work, he’d go for a bath and then to sleep for a few more hours, either in the bed or on the sofa.

As much as he enjoyed Molly’s company in the mornings and evenings, the rest of the day started to become repetitive rather quickly. Today was the last straw after the warmth of the sun had been taunting him through the window all week. He wanted to go outside.

So he did.

It would have been a perfect day to roam the city if only he had the energy for it. He would like nothing more than to go for a walk, maybe to Barts to run some experiments in the lab or to Scotland Yard to pester Lestrade for a case, but even the nearer of the two is too far for his still-tired body to reach on foot. No chance to go out and _be Sherlock Holmes_ , though getting himself up Molly’s stairs and out the front door to lounge on the stoop made him feel significantly less out of his skin.

The ache in his shoulder hasn’t quite dissipated and he feels the pinch return from when he yanked the hoodie from the bottom of his bag of clothes and pulled it over his head. A roll of the shoulder relieves some of the stiffness, and if Molly notices, she doesn’t comment.

It feels good to sit outside with her while the afternoon winds down. The sounds of the city are a comfortable background to their mostly one-sided conversation. It’s so _ordinary_ , but he doesn’t mind listening. She had no trouble moving the subject away from Mycroft, having visibly made up her mind not to care, and Sherlock could not deny her dismissive “Right, anyway...” was incredibly appealing. He wonders if she may be willing to make a point of pestering Mycroft by pushing the definition of platonic ever so slightly the next time he shows up.

He no longer needs the wall’s support to move about but he accepts Molly’s help when she insists they go inside, grasping her forearm and hauling himself up to stand. He still wobbles when upright, trying to hold up a body that feels uneven and heavy, and she stays close in case his balance is thrown off. The stairs are a mere matter of taking the majority one at a time and then jumping the bottom two, turning to watch Molly take all the steps individually.

“If you’d knocked yourself out on the wall, I’d have left you there,” she says when she reaches the bottom.

“I thought your philosophy was to kiss it better,” he counters. He doesn’t miss the slight upward curve of her lips as she walks past him into the flat. She hangs her coat and drops her bag by the door, toeing off her shoes before making a beeline to the kitchen, dropping a scoop of food into Toby’s dish and coming back with the takeout menu she keeps on the fridge. Sherlock takes the pamphlet from her hands and makes his way to the sofa where he left his mobile earlier this afternoon. “I’ll order, you go do your Friday thing.”

“My Friday thing,” Molly mimics. They both know she’s an easy order, rarely altering her main while thieving off him since he tries something new every time, and so she walks into her bedroom to gather her sleep clothes before trotting past him to the bathroom for a shower.

The LED on his mobile does not flash to notify him of the text he received while outside. He pays little attention to his screen as he unlocks his phone and opens the message, instead scanning the menu for something unfamiliar. He eventually settles on the duck with monk and turns his eyes to the text, his stomach dropping when he looks from the single letter at the top of the screen to the lone image comprising the conversation.

If he hasn’t been in the news, she sends one every few months as if to make sure he knows she is still alive. Otherwise he gets one every time he ends up in international headlines, with the addition of some meaningless words of acknowledgement: _Congratulations on your continuing success._ No names, of course.

He has realised he is more amendable to reply when he’s low. One of the rare times he did text back was after the plane, sitting in Mycroft’s darkened office by himself while the powers that be decided what to do with him. He can’t remember what he felt when he texted her that day. She’d sent him a picture of a Christmas tree a few days previous. He sent her a simple _Happy holidays._ Nothing came after.

It’s a harmless game of people-watching, really. The shot she sent him is centered on a woman buying apples at a fruit stand in a crowded outdoor market. Primary school teacher, late twenties to early thirties, going grey slowly enough that she can pull them instead of resorting to dyes that won’t match the auburn tone of her hair. She has a sheltie and hasn’t told her mother she left her boyfriend two months ago.

As usual, he has no intention of sharing the information. He doesn’t need to exercise any restraint to avoid responding. She must believe he looks at the pictures and solves every puzzle she gives him and even though he already knows he won’t play a turn, this is an out of bounds area. Even the idea of participating in the game outside his own space seems incredibly inappropriate. The unease he feels just looking at the image is new, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t.

He looks up to the bathroom door and tries not to think about why he feels as guilty as he does over something he isn’t even doing. Then he deletes the conversation and switches to the dial pad to order dinner.


	13. Chapter 13

“Why are you still here?” she asks on Tuesday. “Not to say I want you gone, but you’re probably fit to go home by now.”

“I intend to sleep in my own bed tonight.” Sherlock’s voice is clear from the kitchen where he is putting away the leftovers from dinner, at his own insistence, while Molly sits on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table. She skims through the documentaries section on Netflix, her eyes only moving from the TV when Sherlock pads into the room with a bowl of grapes in one hand and his phone in the other. He steps over her legs with ease and drops onto the sofa next to her, sitting for only a moment before choosing a more horizontal position with the bowl on his stomach and his head in her lap. She gives him an _excuse you_ look, to which he simply looks at her innocently and says, “What?”

“Since when are my legs your pillow?” she says accusingly.

“Youthful rebellion.”

“Oh, so you’re trying to annoy your brother.”

“Quite so,” Sherlock says, nodding seriously. They both know Mycroft has no eyes or ears in her flat, but she doesn’t have to mention it to break Sherlock’s stoniness; he does it all on his own when he raises his head to look down at his snack with a frown, realising with multiple chins that the decision to lie down was tactically a poor one. He still doesn’t get up, choosing instead to reach blindly into the bowl to pull a grape off the stem. Molly returns to her search and settles on a nature doc she hasn’t seen yet, setting the remote on the arm of the sofa and pilfering a grape from the bowl with two fingers. Sherlock grumbles at the ease with which she commandeered his snack, so with a roll of her eyes she plucks another grape off the stem and holds it to Sherlock’s mouth. He takes it between his teeth without preamble and turns his attention to his phone as he chews.

As has become the case, they fall into a companionable silence, she watching TV while he scrolls though his correspondence. It feels mostly the same as all the other times they’ve sat around doing their own things, which must be a result of their continued closeness over the months she’s lived at Baker Street. The past couple weeks have been a catalyst to bring out Sherlock’s more cuddly side, apparently, and she’s not willing to complain about it. With his head in her lap Molly carries on picking grapes off the stem in pairs, holding one to his lips before taking the other.

“Going a bit grey around the edges,” she points out, brushing her fingers through the hair at his temples. “Time to dye again?”

“Again?”

Molly looks down at him and raises a brow in challenge. She may have started colouring her hair at twenty-four but she’s not going to let him get off pretending he doesn’t do it too. He relents quickly, shrugging with a mumbled, “Suppose so.”

“Don’t do it for my benefit. I think it could look good on you.”

It’s his turn to give her a face as he tips his head back with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. “I believe this is what people call mixed signals.”

“Mixed signals would be me telling you to get off while doing this.” Her fingers move from his temple to rake through his mess of curls like she’s petting a fluffy cat. It earns her a contented hum, and he goes back to looking at his phone while she runs her hand through his hair.

“I like this,” Sherlock says after a few minutes.

Molly doesn’t look away from the TV this time, though she does offer him another grape, which he takes immediately. “Being pampered?”

“Being in your company. It’s the most time I’ve spent with another human being in quite a while. I’ve enjoyed it.”

“Me too,” she admits. Her fingertips find their way back to his temples and Sherlock huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Problem for another day, Molly. If you want me to fall asleep, keep doing what you were doing before.”

More than happy to oblige, Molly allows herself a small smile and goes back to playing with Sherlock’s hair. If he’s leaving tonight, she’s going to take this opportunity and run with it.

* * *

 

Something is... off.

It is the only conclusion he can make as he stares at the ceiling, the bow of his violin between his fingers tipping back and forth like a metronome with a slow _tap... tap... tap..._ on the arm of his chair. He cannot identify what it is that feels wrong apart from knowing that it is definitely _something_.

He has been unable to pin down the discomfort pulling at him recently. It did not come from returning to 221B; after trekking up the stairs with his bag that evening, he fell onto the sofa and only opened his eyes again the following afternoon, waking to find that someone had come upstairs and put all of his things away while he slept. Both Molly and Mrs. Hudson came to check on him over the course of the week no matter how many times he insisted he felt fine. 

_Tap... tap... tap... tap..._

Visiting with John and Mary and Rosamund does him only good. Being able to observe and play with his goddaughter remains a favourite activity, as does working with either or both of her parents. Needless to say his chosen family is not related to the strange uneasiness he is currently trying to sort through.

The cases have come and gone with a pleasant frequency. He has been useful. His mind is still sharp. The ones Lestrade brings him are interesting, time-consuming, energising. The clients that come to him are less boring than usual. The phone calls are numerous. The emails are detailed.

Sunday breakfast with Molly has been the same as ever. She left the deck of cards with him after taking down the diagram and he has been sifting through them occasionally, curious of the dull simplicity of the ordeal. 

Whatever the feeling is that's pulling at his gut, it won’t come out over the strings. He has organised and reorganised, started and stopped, changed and changed and changed the song again and again but each revision sounds wrong. He has ruled out malcontent. The feeling is not sadness or anger or guilt. It certainly isn’t joy or surprise or disgust.

_Tap... tap..._

Slow movement through the flat, looking, listening, trying to figure out just what has put him in a funk, all of it has done nothing to set him in the right direction. Nevertheless, he sets the bow down and pushes himself out of the chair, walking to the kitchen. He stops at the table and places his hands on the wood, looking from the area littered with papers and equipment to the area nearly devoid of decoration. He runs a finger along the thin gash in the wood, following the path of the sword from the angle of the one who wielded it, remembering the feeling of the chemicals that pushed him to move, to get out from under the blade before it could cut his skin.

His eyes are drawn to the small pot in the center of the table and the three green stalks growing favourably in spite of the fluorescent light above. Something pokes at him now and he frowns at the bamboo that calls itself lucky. There’s no way this can have anything to do with... But there it is, that little prickling when he looks at the tag. _For wealth, happiness and long life._ _Love from Molly xxx_.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, turning away from the gift and stalking back into the sitting room. The light on his phone flashes with a new message and he swipes it off the desk, dropping back into his chair. He wants a case, needs the distraction, but even as he reads the email he picks up the bow with his free hand.

_Tap... tap... tap..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient with me! Updates depend on the cooperation of my brain and hands and recently they've been having a hard time getting along. 
> 
> This chapter marks my mental segue from Part 1 to Part 2. Even if the plan goes belly-up, this thing shouldn't be over for a while yet. Deal with me. I appreciate your sticking around, and as always, thank you for reading and for your feedback :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you forget how to upload a new chapter because you've been a dysfunctional goblin for almost two months...

Being in an altered state of consciousness, Molly isn’t arsed to move anything but her arm when she hears her phone chirp on the coffee table. She opens one bleary eye as she brings it toward her face, currently smashed into the sofa cushion, and reads the text. He’s lucky she was already partly awake or she would have slept right through any chorus of notifications he could convince her phone to deliver.

_Shower. Arriving in half an hour._

As it is, she isn’t particularly in favour of seeing any other human beings tonight. She certainly isn’t in the mood to go out, and she says as much in her one-thumbed reply. She’s about to toss her phone back on the coffee table when it vibrates in her hand.

_Dinner is arriving with me and I have an activity planned that will require more concentration than you will have if you decide to participate while uncomfortable._

“Activity,” she grumbles. Deciding he’s probably right anyway, Molly rolls off the sofa, hauls herself to her feet, and shuffles toward the bathroom.

It takes all her willpower to get _out_ of the shower, grudgingly turning the water off when she hears movement outside. She could have stood there for hours, dozing in the stream of hot water falling onto the crown of her head.... Instead, she gets out of the tub and dries herself off, wrapping the towel around herself and wringing her hair out in the sink before leaving the bathroom feeling warm and clean and nice-smelling. On her way past the kitchen she spots Sherlock unloading a large brown bag at her table; he looks up briefly with the familiar _I’m here, you’re here_ acknowledgement before she makes her way to her bedroom to change.

By the time she comes out dressed in sweats and a hoodie, their food is laid out on the coffee table along with plates and utensils. She holds one arm of her old thick-rimmed glasses in her mouth as she ties her damp hair into a semblance of a bun to stop it dripping all over the place and shoves the specs on her nose as she drops onto the sofa next to Sherlock.

“How was your creepy stalking of the new department head?” she opens bluntly.

“Mostly unnecessary,” he says, unfazed. “Suburban and invested in catching up on social media after a long day of introductory meetings so likely to be friendly enough to take to your awful jokes. And I saw a pair of orange cats in the window so you’ll have something to talk about. While you spent your day lying here, I spent too much time in the sun for so little of consequence.”

“Yeah, you’re a little red there,” she says, gesturing to the back of his neck. “And here.” She taps the bridge of her nose and he scrunches his. “And don’t think I missed the jibe about my jokes. You like them.”

“After so many years I have become attuned to the morbid facets of your personality.”

“I hope _that’s_ not tonight’s activity,” she says warily, watching Sherlock open one of two pairs of chopsticks. He turns to her with a raised brow as he pulls them apart with a loud _snap_. “I don’t need to learn how to use chopsticks.”

“Yes you do. At best it will be a learning experience and you will develop a new skill, and at worst it will be a different type of stress to briefly distract you from what made you ill.”

“I’m not ill because of stress. I just... didn’t feel well today. It happens.”

“I won’t make you explain yourself,” he says, handing her the chopsticks with finality. She takes them after a second of glaring at him and tries to place them in her hand the way she’s seen other people do.

She is a bit surprised to recognise the tone he’s using; the one that people tend to use when they know what’s up but don’t want to talk about it either. In his case it might be that he really doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of sharing time, but the sincerity in his voice makes her wonder if he already knows she’s going to talk. Sharing is good for the soul, or so she’s heard, and it’s not like she’s had anyone to talk to about it since... _Wow. It’s been a really long time._

“I needed a mental health day,” she admits. Her eyes are on her hand as she tries to handle the little wooden sticks and immediately drops one. She picks it up off her lap with a huff and puts it back in her hand, holding it in place with the ridge of her index finger. “I’ll probably need one tomorrow since these things will probably _drive me insane_.”

Sherlock opens the container of sweet and sour sauce with a smirk. He places the container on his plate and opens another box marked _combination_ and places it beside. Then he opens the other pack of chopsticks, breaks them, places them in his hand, and makes a point of picking up a pork ball and dipping it in the sauce before putting it in his mouth.

“Show off.”

He rolls his eyes and puts his chopsticks back on the table. Still chewing, he turns to her and holds his hands out expectantly. She frowns and extends her own right hand to let him work. He seems to put as much attention into manipulating her utensils as he did when he bandaged her cut a couple months ago, keeping his hands on hers a fraction longer than necessary. _Maybe he just likes your hands_ , her little voice says.

“Try it,” he tells her, picking up his own pair and showing her how to move them. She purses her lips and tries to follow the small movements. “Good.” He turns back to the table and takes the foam lid off a container of chicken chow mein, holding it up for her.

“I can’t lift noodles!”

“Then take a piece of chicken.”

“Okay....”

She must have an entertaining look on her face because within seconds he is visibly trying not to laugh, biting his lips and occasionally letting out a quiet huff. The attention just solidifies her determination as she navigates around the aluminium container looking for a victim. He completely turns away to snort when she lets out an “Aha!” and she has to tell him to shut up and stop shaking the container.

“It’s not that complicated.”

“Yes it is. Shush.”

Scrunching her nose, Molly pinches a big piece of chicken with her chopsticks and pulls it out of the noodles, meeting it halfway to get it into her mouth before she can drop it. She keeps her mouth closed as she smiles and raises her arms in victory, chewing happily on her prize.

“Well done,” Sherlock says, placing the container back on the table with a chuckle. “Very dramatic. I don’t understand why you have so much difficulty with chopsticks when you use scalpels and bone saws every day.”

“Biology and physics are not the same science,” Molly argues. “Can I go get a fork now?”

“I suppose I can’t stop you,” he sighs. “Though I’ve heard practice makes perfect.”

“I’ve been making mac and cheese since I was eight and it’s never been perfect. Sometimes you have to know when to fold.”

“And obviously you don’t, since you have thirty years of imperfect mac and cheese behind you.”

She stares at Sherlock with her best scandalised expression in place, her mouth open in mock outrage at his cheek. He just shrugs and turns away to organise his plate, filling it with sweet and sour topped chicken, pork, and shrimp and a large portion of the chow mein topped with a pair of cheese wontons. He looks at her sideways as he starts eating, making a point of using his chopsticks.

“Arsehole,” she mutters, leaning over to make her plate.

They eat in companionable silence, which wouldn’t bother Molly as much if her mind wasn’t already occupied. As she starts to get the hang of the chopsticks, she starts to eat almost numbly, remembering why Sherlock came to her with this “activity”. It was only partly true to say she wasn’t ill because of stress. She’d woken up feeling a bit on the fence, but remembering the date had tipped her over into feeling both mentally and physically exhausted and she’d spent the day stewing in it.

“Tell me about him.” Sherlock’s voice floats into her ears and takes a moment to solidify as a statement. Molly blinks hard, noticing she was staring at an empty plate long enough for him to notice something was off, and looks up at him questioningly. “Tell me about your father,” he repeats patiently.

_Of course you know._

“I...” She thinks for a moment before responding. The room is silent but for the quiet sound of Toby jumping onto the arm of the sofa behind Sherlock to mooch. Sherlock gently nudges the cat until he hops back down, and then looks back to Molly. “He died when I was nineteen. He had lung cancer. We only found out when he went for an X-ray for a pain in his shoulder. The doctors got to it quickly, but... after a few months, he started to forget things.

“It was just little things at first. At breakfast he’d say he was finished and then he’d make another plate. He started losing his train of thought more often. Then he got headaches and mood swings. By the time he agreed to go in for a scan it wasn’t even worth it. It took almost a year but it seemed so fast.” She takes a deep breath, then another, swallowing hard to avoid shedding the tears that she didn’t let fall today. Sensing she has more to say and apparently wanting to hear it, Sherlock waits her out. “It’s silly. You’d think it would get easier to deal with, the longer they’ve been gone. But now he’s been gone longer than he was around and it’s like it’s fresh. No, not _fresh_. It’s just... a new kind of hurt. Like I’m not doing enough as a daughter. I didn’t even phone my mum today.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. And she knows he is. As much as he distances himself from caring about death in his work, he’s human enough that he must feel a slight emptiness at the idea of knowing there will be a day when he’ll be expecting a pestering phone call from his parents and it won’t come. He doesn’t act like he’s particularly fond of them, but when he does talk about them, she can see on his face that he loves them.

He knows she worries about him, his safety, his health, but now she’s more than grateful that he’s concerned about her too. The last time she spoke to him about her father, he was nearing the end of a game and his time among the living. She’d offered her support without hesitation then. As time has gone by, he’s been doing more to be there for her too. For a moment she wonders if he really did want to distract her from her negative thoughts today, or if he just wanted to be there for her.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I already feel a little better talking about it. Thank you for humouring me. I’m sure you knew all that before you asked.”

“I didn’t.”

“Couldn’t you have just read it on me?”

“Possibly,” he admits, “but I haven’t tried to read you in a very long time.”

Molly considers for a moment before looking up at him feeling a little muddled. “Why not?”

“I realised my habit of reading you was almost exclusively used to feed my own necessities and I decided to nip it.”

“Oh. That’s... really sweet of you, actually.” She’s disappointed when Sherlock just hums, as if someone who regularly viewed people as a means to an end actively choosing not to be a manipulator was an insignificant thing. She nudges him with her foot until his eyes meet hers again. “I mean it. Thank you. I know it’s hard for you to switch off. It’s a lot more than just keeping your thoughts to yourself.”

He watches her for a moment, his expression unreadable but for the downward twitch of his lips. She can tell he’s about to push the subject off himself, and she can practically count down the last three seconds before he does it.

“I’ll wash,” he says, collecting her empty plate and placing it on top of his. He picks the spoon out of the sauce and the fork out of the chow mein and adds them to the pile before standing. “Kettle?”

“I’m fine. Thanks, Sherlock.”

He nods and brings the dishes into the kitchen, leaving her to pack up the leftovers and follow. It barely takes a minute of her time, and when everything is piled up in the fridge, she heads to the bathroom to wash the grease off her hands. She scoffs at her own reflection, seeing her face in big old glasses and a half-dry bun falling all over the place. _At least one thing’s easily done_ , she thinks, undoing her hair and fluffing it out. She almost considers tying it back up but settles on leaving it to air dry, uncaring of the strands sticking up and out of the darkened waves. She’ll sleep on it tonight anyway, and it’ll brush flat in the morning.

She stretches tall on her way back into the main room, sticking her legs out to take a few steps on her toes and reaching as high as her arms are willing to go. Sherlock meets her outside the kitchen doorway, very clearly ready to get out of her way and go upstairs but still polite enough to turn to her to announce his departure. It’s an unnecessary courtesy, especially now, since she walks right into him and wraps her arms around his waist in a shameless hug. She wonders about the look he must have on his face in the second before his own arms encircle her shoulders, pulling her a little closer.

“Thank you for the activity,” she says, her words slightly muffled by his shirt and jacket. “It made a bad day better. I do have one question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you know I was here being a gremlin instead of working?”

The rumble of his quiet laugh sounds loud with her ear to his chest. “Mrs. Hudson phoned while I was out to tell me to leave you alone when I got back. I suppose she thought telling me why would convince me.”

“Incorrect.”

“Incorrect,” he agrees. He lets her go and she steps back, meeting his warm smile with one of her own. “I’m glad my tenacity resulted in a positive learning experience.”

“Me too. Good night, Sherlock.”

Her heart very nearly stops when Sherlock brings his hands to her face and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. Giving her one last crinkle-eyed smile, he walks to the door, picking up his shoes before seeing himself out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience but also you're welcome.

“You didn’t!”

“I didn’t think it would be a problem! Since when is small talk a problem...?”

“How long has it been since you’ve had a fresh face in your workplace?”

“A few years, now.” Molly looks up from her tea to the older woman across the table and frowns. “Stop laughing at me.”

“Well!” Mrs. Hudson dissolves into giggles. “The boy’s just started and you ask him over an open chest what his lunch plans are. I don’t know what you expected!”

“I certainly didn’t expect him to turn _grey_ ,” Molly mumbles. She puts her tea down and leans on her elbows, pressing her fingertips to her temples as she watches the steam swirl above the cup. “I hope I didn’t scare him off. I remember how hard it was to find a placement.”

“If he’s got any nerve he’ll still be there tomorrow,” Mrs. Hudson assures her. “He’ll be able to handle Sherlock if he can handle that on his first day.”

Molly can’t help but let out a groan as her face falls into her hands. Poor Jack. He’d expected an easy first day learning the floor plan and instead he’d been hit with the image of corpse chops. Her team even tried to make her feel better about the kid’s terrified expression by saying it would do to break him in if he wasn’t already prepared for it, but God, he looked about ready to vomit and/or faint. _I’ll have to keep reminding myself to hold back on the morgue humour_ , she thinks, feeling mortified all over again.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Molly turns her head to peek out from between her fingers to see Sherlock stroll into the kitchen and open Mrs. Hudson’s fridge. Their landlady gets up to scold him when he pilfers a packaged honey bun from the top shelf, closing the door with his foot and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before letting her swat at his shoulder. He retreats a few steps to rip the plastic off his prize and nods to Molly before taking a large bite.

“Shame on you, acting like you live here....” Mrs. Hudson returns to her seat and throws Sherlock a glare over her tea.

“I do live here.”

“You do not!”

“Upstairs is still here. I pay rent and got you a tenant for the basement.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Molly says at the same time Mrs. Hudson replies, “You shot up my wall!”

“I’m hardly interrupting.” He looks at Molly as seriously as possible while he chews on his snack. “Though there is something I need to discuss with you when you’re finished.”

“Then go home until we’re finished,” Mrs. Hudson says sharply. “This is tea time for the girls. You may be able to get away with stealing my food but I’m drawing the line at you invading our space!”

“You sound like a teenager, Mrs. Hudson.”

“All the best for being around you two.”

Sherlock blinks as he sifts through the meaning of the jab. Molly just sits up to take a sip of her tea, leaving him to figure it out on his own. Apparently he doesn’t need her help, because after a moment he makes his exit mumbling that he’ll be upstairs.

“Sometimes I want to punch him on the nose,” Mrs. Hudson says, shaking her head.

“I don’t blame you,” Molly laughs. “Maybe I’ll get to it first! Depends on what he wants this time.”

* * *

 

She almost wishes she’d stayed downstairs a little longer. Standing just inside the doorway, Molly looks on with a raised brow while her neighbour removes folder after folder after folder from a professional-looking cardboard box surrounded by other similar boxes.

“I’m seeing six,” she says, eyeing the of boxes by the fireplace.

“There’s another,” Sherlock says, nodding toward the kitchen where an empty box sits haphazardly near the edge of the table. “I need to put all of them in chronological order before I can start working.”

“Working on what?” Doing anything right now might signify a yes answer for him, but she can’t help going to the kitchen to move the empty box to the floor under the table. The little pot in the centre of the table still has the tag attached, the three green stalks happily sprouting limbs in their small home. Looking back over her shoulder, she clarifies, “Did you want my help with the cleaning or the case?”

“The case is one of embezzlement and I need to know precisely when it began to narrow down my client’s list of suspects,” Sherlock explains, setting the second empty box inside its lid and holding it out to her. She shakes her head at it, and he places it back on the floor before tossing the lid off a third.

“Two should be a good start,” she says, taking control before he drowns in papers. In fact, she knows he’s dealt with more paperwork than this before and was smart enough to know taking everything out at once didn’t make sense. _Must be really high-profile if he’s rushing himself._ He looks up at her from the floor, wisely awaiting advice. “We can start at the top of your pile and date everything relative to that one.”

“Right,” he says slowly, assessing the files already piled on his desk. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Also, this is for you.” She holds out the legal-sized reinforced envelope for him to take. “It feels full of stuff, and I don’t know if it’s just the person’s writing but the one L almost looks like a C?”

“Mm, that was deliberate. Part of her ongoing revenge has been to make me uncomfortable in my own home.” He examines the writing for another moment before reaching for the letter opener above the fireplace.

“Charming.” The words face her as he opens the back of the envelope and Molly wonders just how many times Janine has sent him stuff addressed to SherCock Holmes. When Sherlock peers into the envelope with a frown, she adds, “What is it?”

With his index and middle fingers, Sherlock lifts a single foil packet out of the envelope, keeping his eyes on the rest of the contents as if counting the number of individually wrapped condoms his sort-of-ex-girlfriend has sent him.

It’s mortifying. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it?

“I suppose I can think up some experiment or other,” Sherlock murmurs. “Kind of her to send them in a way that guarantees they weren’t damaged in transit. Anyway.” He drops the packet back into the envelope and walks past her to place the envelope beside his microscope on the peninsula by the kitchen door. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

 

He drops the last folder into place five hours later. It would have taken longer had he not asked for Molly’s assistance; he was prepared to read every piece of paper out of order if it meant having the information sooner. Jumbled data, in this case, would have been worse than no data, so although he has no pertinent information tonight, he knows he will be in a better position to seek it out tomorrow.

When had he started sifting alone, though? Molly was the one who implemented the organisational system, but Sherlock was the one to complete the chore. He remembers her saying something about an “eyeball break” but he hadn’t noted the time.

Her break had quickly devolved into what she probably expected to be a short kip in his chair but was in fact an act of turning in for the night. After an early shift, he could hardly blame her for falling asleep; after being sucked into the rhythm of their task, he couldn’t blame himself for letting her. Looking at her now, curled up in his chair with her reading glasses hanging off her nose, he wonders how to wake her to tell her their work is done.

He doesn’t want to. The slowed breathing from her parted lips is enough to tell him she is deeply asleep and, somehow, comfortable. At the very least, he carefully removes her specs, placing them on the desk to avoid any damage.

Sherlock watches as a strand of hair falls from behind her ear, his hand moving automatically to tuck it back into place. His fingers linger for a moment, hovering over her cheek before he pulls his hand away.

He is unsure now, just crouching in front of her with a hand in his hair as if it might yield some method of bringing her downstairs without waking her.

“Oh, you’re a coward,” he mumbles to himself, getting to his feet and walking away from Molly’s sleeping form. He knows he’ll be going back in a moment when he turns on the lamps in his room and pulls back the covers on his bed.

Gently scooping her up from his chair, Sherlock carries Molly to his room, setting her down on the mattress and pulling the blankets up to her chin. She burrows into their warmth with a sleepy hum while he plugs in his phone and sets an alarm for the morning, leaving it on the table beside her. It takes less than two minutes to lock up and turn off the lights in the front rooms, and soon he is in his pyjamas, flicking off the lamps and climbing into bed beside Molly.

* * *

 

 _Not long enough,_ he thinks when he wakes to the repetitive beeping of his mobile. His brain is still fogged from a sleep that felt only minutes long, but he manages to lean over far enough to tap the snooze button on the screen. Dropping back into place, he shifts into the comfortable position in which he awoke, pulling himself back toward Molly, hugging her around the waist and burying his nose in her sleep-warmed hair.

A series of mental exclamation points is what jolts him properly awake, shuffling away to his side of the bed with hot cheeks. The sudden movement jostles Molly awake and Sherlock watches with wide, unblinking eyes as she takes in her surroundings to learn where she is. She reaches for his phone to check the time, dismissing the alarm and sitting up in a stretch that makes her joints pop. When she finally turns to him, he is still wrapped up in the blankets, staring up at her.

“Did I wake you?” she asks.

“No,” he replies, almost too quickly. Clicking back into a semblance of sanity, he sits up and kicks off the covers, walking around to the door. “I set it so you’d have time to go downstairs and get ready. Do you want coffee first?”

“I think I’ll just go pee and get ready if that’s okay?”

“Of course. Your glasses and mobile are on the desk.”

“Thanks. Nice hair, by the way,” she quips as she trots past him and into the bathroom.

He frowns as he pulls his dressing gown from behind his door and throws it on. Between his room and the kitchen, he runs his fingers through the mess of his sleep hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it just a little. _Yours is hardly better,_ he thinks, though the tangles in Molly’s hair in the morning are incomparable to his own fluffy disaster.

Just what the hell was that, anyway? When had he turned into a… a cuddler? God, he must be farther down the rabbit hole than he realised. He should never have entered Molly’s space like that without her permission.

_And you’re probably too afraid to even mention it, right?_

“Yes, thank you, John, I am aware of my failings.” Would it even be wise to mention it? Wouldn’t that create unnecessary tension? Of various kinds?

“Right, I’ll be off, then!” Molly’s chipper voice comes from behind him before he feels her pass by on her way into the main room. “Looks like we got it all done.”

“Yes, I did,” he says with a smirk.

_Teasing, really? Go back to bed!_

_Happily._

Molly’s cheeks turn slightly pink and he notes that yes, she did manage to take control of her morning hair. Even in her rumpled clothes from yesterday she looks far less awkward than he feels.

“Sorry I fell asleep. But thank you for bringing me to bed and waking me up early.”

“It was no trouble. Thank you for helping yesterday,” he says sincerely, walking to the door to unlock and open it for her. “Have a lovely day, Molly.”

“You too, Sherlock. See you later.”

He nods as she makes her way out and closes the door behind her. He listens to her footsteps, down to the landing, around the corner, down again and past the creaky stair. When the sound fades, he releases the tension he didn’t know he was holding in his shoulders and leans his forehead against the door. His hand is still on the doorknob, as if waiting for his brain to command it to open the door again.

Instead, he sighs and returns to his room to get a bit more sleep in before Mrs. Hudson comes up with the tea.

When the sleep refuses to come back to him, he lies in the spot his friend recently vacated, staring at the periodic table of elements hanging in its frame behind the door. _Hydrogen_ , he recites after nearly an hour. _Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen. Fluorine. Neon._

_Chemistry._

“What?” he snaps, shoving the image of John’s smug face into the background. _Sodium. Magnesium. Aluminium. Silicon._

 _He’s right, though,_ Mary’s voice puts in, filtering through the buff he is attempting to build up.

“I don’t know what you two are implying,” he argues. Gritting his teeth, he continues, _Phosphorus. Sulfur. Chlorine._

_Yes you do._

_Argon.... Dammit._

Throwing off the blankets with a huff, Sherlock checks the time on his phone. _Hardly meticulous but always knows to leave at the right time._ He has two minutes. No time to get dressed, so he launches himself at the dresser and blindly pulls out a pair of socks, yanking them onto his feet with enough force that he may have ripped anything cheaper. Just fine that this week’s dressing gown is the one he shot a hole through as he very nearly shuts it in the kitchen door on his way out. The stairs fly by as fast as they can without him actually jumping down them, and he approaches the bottom in time to see Molly expertly stashing her mini umbrella in the bag slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” she says brightly. “I didn’t forget anything, did I?”

Wasting no time, Sherlock skips the last two steps and closes the distance between them in two strides, the pounding in his ears reaching a deafening level as he brings his hands up to either side of her face and kisses her hard.

Electricity sparks deep inside his chest when he registers her lips against his, slightly parted in surprise and oh so warm. He pulls away before he can become unwelcome, stepping back gulping for air as his brain begins to flood with chemicals that leave him feeling terrified and excited.

Molly, for all his good fortune, appears unfazed as her confirmed-soft lips quirk up in a small smile. Beyond the buzzing in his head, he recognises the pink tinge to her cheeks with some pleasure.

“Just something for you to consider,” he croaks, barely managing to control his voice when the rest of him seems to be vibrating.

“Consider it under consideration,” she replies somewhat more shakily. Half turning, she adds, “I do have to…”

“Yes. Don’t want to be late for work.”

“I’ll see you later,” she says for the second time, turning away with a shy smile that warms his toes. He positively short circuits when she pauses halfway through the open door to check her pockets, almost expecting her to come back, but then she steps through and the door clicks shut behind her, leaving him standing in the silent foyer.

 _Too awake for tea now_ is his last thought as he bounds back up the stairs, ready and raring to take on his case.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*

Molly spends the majority of her morning on autopilot, flying through her list with clipped professionalism in an effort to maximise on time. It’s a waste, really, knowing she’ll be here for nine hours anyway, but at least if she can pull some free time out she’ll be able to put her feet up for a while and breathe. Her fingers flit over the keys as she transcribes her notes from a recently concluded post-mortem, occasionally clicking pause on her recording and looking away from her screen to check on Jack’s progress in the next room. He seems comfortable enough asking the team for help refilling the storage closet, so she hits play again and returns to typing along to the recorded words.

The sound of a ringing phone cuts into her awareness but goes ignored while she works. Her mobile sits within arm’s reach across the desk, screen lit up, but as Jack enters the office and spares it a glance, she lets it ring until it cuts and the caller is sent to her voicemail. She’s very nearly at the end of the recording when her phone begins ringing again. With a huff, she carries on, unbothered by the view in her peripheral as Jack inches over and picks up her mobile.

“Dr. Hooper’s phone, student speaking,” he says clearly as he backs out of her circle to avoid distracting her. She pushes on typing for a few seconds after the end of the recording, rereading the file before saving it and sending it to the printer. She yanks out her earbuds and turns to Jack as he places her phone back on the desk. “Message for you.”

“Who from?”

“Greg? Says he got the first half on Harrison but nothing on the tests they ordered yesterday afternoon?”

Molly turns back to her monitor, muttering expletives all the while, and scrolls through the server for the reports from yesterday’s evening shift. It only takes a few seconds to find the correct file and skim it, noting the save time and the end note. With a scowl, she grabs her clipboard and adds the screenings to her to-do list. Then she checks the rest of last night’s files and adds two more.

“This isn’t a bloody team effort,” she grumbles, nearly ripping a hole through the paper with her pen as she writes a note to mention the incomplete work to the supervisors. She cools herself before looking back to Jack and adding, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, he said he tried to get through to the office but it rang out.”

“It didn’t ring in here....” Molly looks to the old black phone sat innocently beside the monitor and taps the speaker button to hear silence instead of a dial tone. “I’ll talk to someone later. Tests first. Ask Bobbie to show you to the lab; she’ll be heading for lunch after anyway. I’ll meet you there.”

“Sure thing.”

She waits until the door swings shut before slouching into her chair with a heavy sigh. _One thing after another_ , she muses, drinking in the precious seconds of inactivity of her work day being put on pause. Taking the time to do some of the breathing she hasn’t had time for, doing some of the consideration she doesn’t even need to do, a broad smile forming on her face when she thinks about that maybe-future-something a few hours away.

With one deep, grounding breath, she kicks her chair away from the desk and pushes herself to her feet, eager to get back to work. She makes her way back to the lifts with a renewed determination to finish her day, knowing precisely how it’s going to go. They’ll finish the tests, send off the results, and be off for lunch. Then after, she’ll finish her tasks for the day and be on her way home. Smooth sailing.

She examines her list while she ascends, enjoying the solitude of the big metal box. When the lift pings and the doors open, she takes a blind step forward before looking up.

The background of the lobby catches her attention first, stopping her in her tracks before she can exit on the wrong floor. When she looks up, however, she feels her face slacken in surprise as she stands face to shoulder with Sherlock Holmes.

She was riding on not seeing him until this evening, and it looks about the same for him. As they stare at each other in silence, the memory of his lips on hers slides back into her mind and she feels the heat rise in her cheeks. A small part of her is chuffed to notice he’s going a bit pink too; she wonders how he’s remembering it. Then the doors start to close and the spell is broken, and he jumps forward while she steps back to let him in.

The doors click shut and the lift ascends in silence as they stand side by side. She can feel the tension in the air, the need for each of them to speak before... before something. After a moment, she takes a breath and decides to go first.

“I’m not here to hound you,” Sherlock says before she can get a word out. He’s watching the lights above the door marking the passing levels as they go up. For an instant Molly thinks he’s deliberately avoiding eye contact, but then he turns his attention to her and offers a small smile. “I got bored.”

“Did you already finish the embezzlement case?”

“I needed a break from reading invoices. I’m almost certain of the guilty parties – plural – but I intend to delete as many Swedish names as possible before I continue. What kind of high end firm exclusively buys IKEA furniture?”

Molly holds back a grin at the thought of Sherlock trying to pronounce any of the more difficult names, quickly shuffling forward when the lift glides to a stop and the doors open with a ping. When he follows her out, he falls in step next to her at a pace she can match.

“Did you have anything in mind?” she asks as they make the short trip to the end of the corridor and the path lab.

“What are you doing?”

“A few tests last night left behind. You can’t help.”

“Why not?” he says, affronted.

“I’m working with a student.” Sherlock’s nose scrunches in distaste and for a second Molly wants nothing more than to yank him down and kiss it. “Your box of cultures is still safe in the fridge.”

“Ooh!”

He opens the door and follows her into the lab, floating around her to make a beeline for the cooling unit on the far side of the room. She hears his quiet “Aha!” as he pulls a box the size of a pulp fiction from the fridge to place at his preferred station.

“Right, first thing we have to do is...” Molly looks from her list to her student, trailing off when she sees Jack gaping at Sherlock as if he’d never seen another human male before. “What is it?”

“Can he just... do that?”

“Considering I’m currently _doing that_ without hindrance, I’d say your answer is yes,” Sherlock says pleasantly, throwing Jack a tight smile over the top of his microscope. “Hello, student.”

“Hey,” Jack replies slowly, somehow managing to look even more confused.

“Sherlock, this is Jack Braithwaite,” Molly says while Sherlock is still looking their way. “He’s on loan for the next few months. Jack, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Uh-huh.” After a second Jack seems to pull himself out of his stupor, shaking his head when Sherlock goes back to his microscope. “Sorry, should we get started?”

“Yes! You’ve done these in class before, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Storage is just outside to the right if you’d like to fetch our things.”

“Sure.”

Molly hands him her to-do list and watches him go, pulling out her mobile and setting a timer when his back is to her. Looking to Sherlock across the lab, she feels something bubble up in her gut. Opportunity. She keeps her phone in her hand as she sidles up beside Sherlock, looking over his workspace with curiosity before poking him in the side to get his attention. He backs away from the microscope and turns to her with a raised brow.

“You said you weren’t here to hound me. I didn’t really think about it, but did you say that because you thought I might see it that way?”

His expression turns pensive as his gaze drops to her shoulder. “I... did, a bit, yes.” He looks back up at her face. “I had plenty of time to turn a different corner when I walked here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Walk here? I realise that.”

“Come here to hound me.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes a couple times as he tries to form a reply. Then she sees that lovely nose scrunch again as he says, “I didn’t.”

“I mean to say, you wouldn’t have had to,” she murmurs. With a shrug and more confidence than she’s felt with most other people, Molly goes on her toes and places a quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips. When she lands back on her heels, she is delighted to see a spark in his wide eyes. “I hope that’s proof enough.”

“Still not as clear as it could be,” he says after a second. “Need more data. If you wouldn’t mind repeating the sample for a longer period...”

“Hmm, can’t spare the time, sorry.” She throws him a teasing smile as she backs toward her workspace. The door opens behind her and she taps the timer on her phone, holding it up to show Sherlock the record as Jack starts setting up at the end of the table, oblivious. “Don’t you have some Swedish names to be deleting?”

“Suppose so,” Sherlock concedes, turning back to his microscope, barely tamping down a smirk.

* * *

 

He watches from the window as the boxes are packed into the plain grey van and the back doors are slammed shut behind them. The cheque in his hands cannot be considered valid until his client well and truly leaves, and even after the van pulls away and out of sight, looking down at the paper just causes him to roll his eyes again at the absurdity of it. All he did was answer the questions put to him; in the end, he could hardly care to deem it a case. Paperwork, more like. Light reading. Not worth nearly as much as what they paid him, though an auditor would not have been able to give such a thorough result, so to each their own. He _is_ pleased he was able to finish early.

When his eyes return to the street below, they fall on one pedestrian in particular coming from the direction of the Tube station. She looks completely calm as she trots toward 221 with her bag slung over one shoulder, not once looking up at where he must be clearly visible through the window. He loses sight of her when she steps up to the front door, and from there becomes exceedingly aware of the near-discomforting warmth reaching down to his toes.

He didn’t interrupt Molly and her bird-looking student on his way out of the lab earlier, merely passing by with an acknowledging nod, and though his work in the afternoon concluded rather quickly, he had not been able to come up with a single thing to say to Molly when she arrived home. All he was able to do was to wait for the client to come pick up his boxes, time he spent sitting on his arse plucking at his violin and not actually bothering to play anything. He paced. He played solitaire on his phone. He started a list of the science he could do with the contents of the envelope lying beside his microscope in the kitchen. He sat some more.

Now he can hear Molly climbing the stairs instead of going down to her own flat to do literally anything else, and he is ready to burst. When she reaches and continues past the landing, Sherlock turns from his vantage point, preparing to greet his neighbour when his eyes stop on the kitchen table and the little patch of green and porcelain white, bright against the dark brown wood.

“Huh.”

“What’s that?” Molly says, instantly curious as she enters the main room and sets her bag on the chair beside the door. She appears to try to follow his gaze and ends up looking all around the kitchen before her questioning eyes fall on him.

“I’ve acquired wealth,” Sherlock tells her, holding up the cheque for a moment before dropping it onto the desk. “I’m feeling rather happy. But I haven’t quite figured out how I’m expected to live a long life. Current standards are suggesting it’s unlikely.”

“Maybe I should have picked the two stalks after all. But I guess gifting luck in love to a bachelor would have been a bit silly, wouldn’t it?”

The effort he expends to maintain eye contact nearly overwhelms him, but he does find he is grateful that Molly is willing to conduct the current discussion in such a circumlocutory way. He expected to have to dance around it for a time, and now that they are within strides of each other, talking about _love_ , of all things, he very much wants to run _toward_ and not _from_.

“Yes,” he says, taking the three steps to where she stands and completely tossing away any excuses he might have made for himself for taking so damn long to reach this point, “it would. Quite silly. Now, though...”

The smile that blooms on her face is not unfamiliar, but this time it has the added bonus of a mischievous glint in her eye and her hands reaching out to pull him closer by his lapels. It’s exciting to simply let her drag him into her personal space, and he goes willingly until she has him at her level, close enough that he can smell the chemical scent of the morgue still lingering in her hair, their lips barely an inch apart.

“I seem to remember,” Molly murmurs, “you wanted some data to consider.”

“It may be skewed if you keep smiling, Molly.”

“Mm. I don’t care.”

And when she closes the distance between them with a positively searing kiss, Sherlock decides he doesn’t care either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws more confetti*
> 
> Final chapter coming soon, friends. Thank you for sticking with me on this magic carpet ride.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it. We're here.

“ _Why_ ,” John says, slapping the snow off his coat, “did we walk back in that?”

“It’s nice out.” Sherlock spares a glance back as he tosses his Belstaff over the bannister, internalising a chuckle at the sight of his former flatmate shaking melting snowflakes out of his hair and stamping his feet to warm them. “Though I suppose you’re more acclimatised to desert heat.”

“Desert winters get just as cold, you arse. And it’s _not_ the cold; it’s the puddle I stepped in!”

“Part of the charm.” He tilts his head toward the stairs and John follows him up, escaping his shoes as soon as he gets in the door. “I’ll get you a change of socks. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Mary’s wrath if I send you home sick just before Christmas, would I?”

Leaving John to turn on the light and find his way to his chair, Sherlock heads to his room and his sock drawer. When he returns to the main room he tosses John a pair of purple socks, receiving a tired “Ta” for his donation, and drops into his own chair to send an awaited text.

“It’s pretty spotless in here,” John comments as he rolls on the fresh socks. “Did Mrs. Hudson clean or are you finally trying to convince Molly to move in?”

“Molly and I are quite content with our living arrangements, thank you, John,” Sherlock replies smoothly. “Why are you so surprised that it’s clean?”

“Just that good habits haven’t necessarily been your forte.”

“Says the man who made exactly zero percent of the hot drinks while living under this roof.” Sherlock allows himself a moment of pride when John fails to come up with a witty response to the hard truth. “Don’t look in the fridge if you don’t want to die of shock, then. You’ll be _amazed_ to learn that I’ve also been eating real food more frequently.”

“By choice?”

“Is it really so surprising to believe that I’ve grown as a person in the last six months and am stepping into adulthood with finesse?”

“Guess not,” John says with a shrug, sitting back and looking around. “God, have I really not been up here in six months? I think the only thing I actually recognise is the science station,” he adds, pointing a thumb back toward the kitchen and the microscope and cabinet waiting patiently in their spots off to the side. “Though that envelope didn’t look empty last time.”

“What?” Sherlock vaults out of his chair to the kitchen, snatching up the envelope leaning against his microscope. He shakes it once before looking inside and frowning at the lack of contents.

“What is it?”

“Significant.”

“Significant how? What was in it?”

“None of your business,” Sherlock mutters, grateful to hear the ping of his text alert before he can fall into some probing trap John might set. He may not be a genius but he can be very good at asking questions that have nothing to do with him, and Sherlock is not willing to share that part of his personal life with his friend. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket and reads the text on the lock screen. “Many apologies, John, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to see you out now. Molly needs me to help her break in some new furniture.”

“God, Sherlock, I know what that means,” John groans, already halfway to the door and visibly disgusted, his expression contorting in an even more amusing fashion when he pulls on his still-wet shoes.

Containing another laugh at John’s ridiculous face, Sherlock follows him down to the foyer. His friend looks positively miserable until his coat is on and a thought appears to manifest in his head and on his face.

“Don’t forget dinner at your parents’ tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“ _Don’t_ come hungover.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“Right. Well. Go do your... thing.”

“Thank you for the permission. Molly will be delighted to have your blessing.”

“Yes, all right, fine,” John mutters, shuffling out the door.

 _Good luck with your taxi_ , Sherlock thinks at him, turning on his heel to go down to Molly’s flat.

Half expecting to be greeted by Toby in the usual conversational manner, Sherlock feels only slightly snubbed when he walks through the door at the bottom of the stairs. He finds the cat lying on top of a face-down bookcase, enjoying a belly rub from his owner, sitting on the floor beside. Molly looks up with a wide smile, gesturing for him to come forward. The sound of his feet stirs Toby and he finally receives his greeting as the cat meows loudly at him and hops off the bookcase to rub against his leg.

“I thought you said John was with you?” Molly says, getting to her feet and wiping the fur off her jeans.

“He left. I told him I was coming to help you with this.” Molly gives him a sceptical look from the other side of the bookcase and he rolls his eyes in response. “He _may_ have inferred the statement to mean I was coming down here to ravage you on the coffee table.”

“I’m sure it could take it,” she says casually. She looks at his hands pointedly and adds, “Were you planning to?”

“Hm?” Following her gaze, Sherlock realises he brought the envelope downstairs with him. “Oh. No. It’s empty.” He tips it upside down and gives it a shake to make his point before tossing it in the general direction of the aforementioned coffee table. “In fairness, a number of them did go to science. Ready?”

“Ready.”

It only takes a handful of seconds for the pair of them to pick up the bookcase and shuffle it into place beside her other two. The task of moving the books from their uncomfortable vertical stacking on the older shelves to a happy horizontal life on the new addition is one Sherlock falls into with ease, following the sequence of organisation Molly holds dear for her overabundance of science fiction.

“Why am I letting you do this?” she asks a few minutes later.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder to where Molly is leaning over the back of the sofa, munching on a bowl of salad. He takes in the sight with appreciation, noting the complete lack of self-consciousness as she blows a strand of hair out of her face and shoves another forkful of lettuce into her mouth. Toby, now lounging on the arm, twitches his ears at the quiet crunching.

“I did say I would help you break it in. Am I doing it wrong?”

“No....” She points at the ceiling with her fork. “Don’t you have a lamp supporting one of your shelves upstairs? That doesn’t seem well weighted.”

“The lamp is doing fine,” Sherlock says, defensive of the old bookcases in his flat.

“The shelves are really warped, though. You should get new ones before they fall apart.”

“Only if you help me break them in.”

Molly grins at that, leaving Sherlock to soak in her sunshine. Six months hasn’t seemed to have done him any favours in subtlety when it comes to Molly; he feels himself becoming more completely blissed out on adoration every day. He looks around the room, considering the comfort it brings him, along with its occupants. He’s always liked spending time in 221C, not only because it housed a friend. He considers the domesticity of this, of putting things together and moving things around with Molly. Of going out, staying in with Molly. Of spending days away from Molly because their lives don’t need to overlap.

“It’s very sweet of you to be doing this for me,” Molly tells him when he goes back to moving books. “It’s very... boyfriendly.”

“ _Boyfriendly_ , Molly, honestly?”

“Well, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m being... neighbourly.”

“Never had a neighbour do all the things you do.”

He doesn’t need to see her to know she’s waggling her brows at him. She almost definitely doesn’t need to see him to know he’s gone pink in the ears. As it is, he just finished placing the last of the migrating books on their shelves, so he leaves the bookcase for the sofa. He doesn’t bother with grace as he plops down on the cushion, putting his feet up on the coffee table and pulling Molly toward him so she’s sitting across his lap. Taking advantage of her efforts to get comfortable, he takes the bowl and fork from her hands and digs into what’s left of her salad, holding the treasure out of her reach when she makes an annoyed noise and tries to take it back.

“I haven’t eaten today.”

“Then get your own kit out of the fridge!”

“But this was so close.”

Molly rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, ever patient. “I don’t have much else in. We could go out, if you want. Or order in from the Phoenix, since you’ve been out all day, and you can tell me about it over dinner.”

“I prefer the second option.”

“I’ll phone it in, then.” She takes his face in her hands and kisses him before rolling off the sofa. “Back in a moment, _neighbour_.”

“I love you!” he calls as she walks to the kitchen.

“I love you too, silly man,” she replies with a laugh.

Beaming like a fool, Sherlock turns to Toby, still stretched out on the arm of the sofa. “Did you hear that?” he says, giving Toby a scratch behind the ears, keeping it up when the cat begins purring loudly. “She loves me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here we are. The happy ending with absolutely none of the angst I thought would end up in this fic. Sometimes they just need to get happy and be happy! I'm glad it turned out the way it did, and I hope you are too.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and gave kudos. Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged my little updates and everyone who sent me messages to motivate me on tumblr. I'm jazzed to have been able to make something people enjoyed this much and I'm so grateful for all the feedback I've received. I thrive on praise. Feed me. You know where to find me.
> 
> And of course, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and yours.


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